Beneath the Surface
by AnonyMiss J
Summary: This is my own twisted version of the relationship of Severus Snape and Hermione Granger, starting from day one of her first year at Hogwarts. Herein lies what 'really' happens between the two in those long seven years...beneath the surface.
1. He Who Cannot Be Saved

This chapter solely focuses on Severus Snape himself. It is an introductory overview of his persona, as seen by others and himself. The rest of this tale will involve other characters, and they will interact in present tense.  
  
Also, just f.y.i., this chapter is admittedly difficult to read, but since its creation was so meaningful to me, I cannot bring myself to change it. Do forgive me, but I'm sure all you sentimental folks out there will understand. This is the only chapter in such a format; the others have been separated by paragraphs so they are easier to read.  
  
I hope you enjoy this most salaciously strange tale. Welcome to SSS's take on the HP universe, starring her favorite characters therein:  
  
Beneath the Surface  
  
'He Who Cannot Be Saved'   
  
A pure, golden shaft of light spilled fearlessly onto the center of the black linen covers of the bed, forming roughly a perfect circle. Specks of dust danced gaily and effortlessly in and around the ray, only becoming visible when bathed in its light. They were free to come and go, their only guide and master the omnipresent air itself.  
  
'I envy you.'  
  
The rest of the room was still shrouded in near complete darkness, as the requisite candles and fireplaces hadn't been lit yet. The frail beacon of light was like the mythical fire of the gods, the single symbol of warmth and brilliance in an unforgiving world of shadow and cold, and was coveted as such. The slender beam of light radiated through a circular crack in the stone foundation that, although accidentally so, had been driven through by an Unforgivable spell cast in anger and aimed without thought at a memory that was tormenting and taunting in its unchangeability. The spell was indeed cast with exceptionally formidable force, and even this reckless burst of considerable energy was but a mere modicum of the full strength of the one who uttered it.   
  
Ah, the one who uttered it. This one is unlike any other that had previously existed; this one has the strength of a savior and the desires of a despot. This one can spit out with ease words of such cruelty and malice that any being who even remotely provokes him would be convinced that they were the very bane of his fearsome existence; but this one also is as vulnerable and sensitive to any and all feeling as a doe. And like that creature, he will flee the humans who would reach out to him in compassion, mistaking their kindness for cruelty, for he has not known kindness from his own species, save for but a very small few. In his rather vast experience, tenderness and understanding are given out of need and exchanged for whatever is needed from him. Many times he has damned his intelligence, his strength, his unique gifts for making such a commodity out of him. Many times he would wish them away in exchange for conventional and ordinary attributes, for then no one would need his powers and not his presence, his person. He has come to accept that his body is merely the vessel in which he exists on this Earthly plane, and treats it as if it be but a thing beyond all feeling, an empty shell. Because of this attitude, he possesses an unearthly grace and fluidity of movement, unique only to him. Although it would appear contrived, his sureness and coordination are borne from total ignorance of his physical existence, rather than fixation on his ego.  
  
This one is the essence of darkness, the master of the cauldron and all its supernatural secrets, the lord of the dungeons and the sovereign of the senses. This one is vulnerability personified and at the same time his own Frankenstein. Evil incarnate and need embodied.  
  
He now sits despondently upon his immense bed, entombed within its black veils and canopy. He is sitting cross-legged, his entire body appearing boneless and sagging with exhaustion~felt so often by him it is now thought of as merely 'lack of energy'. His arms rest limply at his sides, wrists atop knees, long, slender hands dangling lifelessly from them, just grazing the ebony bedspread. Inky black hair raggedly frames his face, setting off the equally jet hue of his large, fierce eyes. His eyelids are always resting low over his eyes, as if bored with life; never do they widen in shock or squeeze shut in anguish. No, nothing that he sees surprises him anymore. Long ago had they lost the naive, innocent sparkle that graces the eyes of the curious and spirited, for they have seen so many horrific and awesome spectacles pass into and behind them that, soon after the demise of the sparkle, so too perished the ability to register feeling. Or the desire to possess it. His face, so used to being contorted into a frown or sneer, looks only mildly distressed when he is alone, like now. His brows creased tentatively over his eyes, he stares intently into the circle of light with its dancing dust bunnies that is suspended just a few inches before where he is seated. It seems as though he is looking past it, or through it, so tired are his eyes, now beyond having bags under the lids but instead are constantly graced with a shadowy, purple stain. But still, he stares directly into it, and has been steadfastly doing so all night, an activity that has become rather a tradition since his anger towards his rash actions in mistakenly creating it had dispelled over time. The light had not caused his sleeplessness; in fact, he'd been an insomniac for years now. Ages, so it seemed. Now even sleep was no longer a respite from his troubles, and of those he had many. He used to spend his nights working diligently before the cauldron, or researching whatever it was that had currently captured his interest. On the nights that he was especially troubled, he would apparate out of his rooms in favor of more distracting company or activities, which could include seeing prostitutes in order to be physically comforted by someone or meeting anonymous dealers for the chemical relief of his worries; depending on his mood, of course. Each of these exchanges cost him money and respect for himself, and each involved the most impersonal kind of intimacy between people, as if he were playing at normalcy. Then again, there were some nights when he didn't even have to decide which sinful distraction to indulge himself in, nights when his destination had been chosen for him. Occasionally he was...'called away' to do business. To participate in debauchery far more foul than any that he would so willingly force upon himself alone. Meetings where he would be compelled to complete, inch by agonizing inch, night by endless night, life by pitiful life, the pattern of a mistake that he had committed in bitterness and anger; one he would pay for with his soul, if he even retained that at this point, for his will to live had forsaken him long ago. Had he a choice, he would rather end his life now than have it slowly sapped out of him drop by drop, night by night, life by life when he no longer possessed his own to end. But he gave up any choices he would ever have when that smoldering hatred was burned into him. Yes, the degradation of losing his body and forgetting his mind in the poisonous haze of a drugged stupor or in the ephemeral embrace of a whore was by far preferable to even a second of harking to the hateful hiss of that forked tongue.  
  
But now that he'd discovered the light–or accepted its presence in his life–it became favored over his customary distractions. In fact, he had not participated in any of them once since he had become captivated by its warmth. The light had no consequences whatsoever, involved no human interaction of any kind. No, it was merely a mindless diversion, a cheery beam to meditate upon. Staring into it was like sleep for him, as it allowed him to slowly shut down his body as he concentrated on its nuances and shades while the darkness of night slowly shifted into daylight. Those who knew him or even knew of him would be surprised at the way he spent his nights as of late. Renowned for both his genius in his chosen vocation as well as excelling in any subject that ensnared his fascination (of those, there were many), his uncanny intelligence was proven both in his record-breaking test scores and in complex conversation. He also possessed an exceptionally quick wit and astounding cleverness which permeated his every utterance. Such a powerful and fiercely intelligent mind could seemingly never be sated with such a mundane, pointless pastime as staring into a narrow, little beam of light. But that is just why he felt so at peace when he closed out the world in favor of its light; because a mind and soul such as his were not meant for this world, and he was at his happiest when he could escape from it and be released from the torment of the knowledge that he just didn't belong, and never would.   
  
He sighed. His thoughts began to order and reconvene themselves in his mind.  
  
'I suppose I should get up, those cauldrons won't ready themselves. Would that I wasn't scheduled to teach first period, but it isn't as if I've anything better to do with my time. Or anything worse, thank gods.'  
  
Reluctantly, he began to move almost imperceptibly, shifting his limbs and turning his head from side to side so as to regain feeling in his body and return to it. He slowly snaked an arm forward, his fingers undulating gracefully as they reached out for the light. As soon as the light's warmth touched his hand, he struggled not to yank his arm back and started slightly, as if he was unworthy of its comfort. But he held his hand still bravely, if a bit tentatively. Closing his eyes for the first time in hours, he reveled in the feeling of the warmth flowing down his arm and gradually spreading throughout his body. He was nearly always cold, though he never took note of this until he felt heat. His features relaxed for the first time in too long, and his mouth fell open a fraction as his eyebrows arched heavenwards in relief. When he heard the soft sigh escape his lips, he came back to himself and to his accustomed frown, blinking at his sudden return to reality. He moved to the edge of his bed and stood up languidly, stretching his arms up and arching his back like a cat as his body shuddered with the movement. He shook himself out and slunk serpentinely over to his vanity table. It was a vast, severe-looking piece of furniture, made from the hardiest of wood that had been carved ornately so that it spiraled delicately yet strongly within its circular frame. It had been burnished the darkest mahogany, appearing almost black, yet had a glowing undertone of emerald green. Very unusual and foreboding thing, but he valued it all the same. It had been passed down through his family for eleven generations, and since he presumed that he would be its last owner of his line, he treated the frightful thing with the utmost respect, always sitting gingerly on its matching, carved-wood chair and touching it very carefully, if ever. It was as if the vanity table was his parents incarnate, and he feared and awed it as he had feared and awed them.   
  
He hesitated before lighting the room, not wishing to break the calming spell of the sunlight he had been captivated by all night. But he sighed and intoned 'lumos' before looking into the mirror (it did not speak, as mirrors charmed so had always made him uncomfortable. He valued his privacy, and talking inanimate objects violated it). There was his gaunt face, deathly pale and gloomy, as usual. His unkempt hair hung over his eyes, darkening his face further. He rolled his eyes heavenward before picking up the comb from its place atop the vanity, anticipating the pain that dragging it through his tangled hair would bring.   
  
'May as well just get it over with. It's not as if you haven't earned it.'  
  
He unceremoniously began tugging it through his hair, wincing ever so slightly as it caught on tangle after snarl before finally completing its task. He let out a short breath as he replaced it on the vanity. When he looked back at his reflection in the mirror, he looked every bit as dark and gloomy, only with straight, smooth hair. Turning his head to the left and then right, eyes riveted critically on his reflection, he was satisfied with his appearance. Not pleased, but satisfied. He smirked mockingly at himself and turned away from the mirror, rising smoothly from the vanity and gliding over to his wardrobe. Everything, black. He had rid himself of near any other color upon his return to this institution, though for as long as he could remember he had never put himself in any colors but the darkest and most subdued shades; for some inexplicable reason the shocking brightness of reds, oranges, and yellows and the subtle warmth of purples, blues and greens frightened him rather terribly. He had never fully formulated this realization in his mind, but he had increasingly recoiled from such colors as the years went on. In the jumbled haze of his thoughts, he could make out the distinct feeling that he was undeserving of drawing such attention to himself, or of putting any thought into how the colors could enhance or add to his appearance.   
  
He chose a simple black, button-down, high-neck shirt and black trousers. His ensemble was simple and straightforward. It all but screamed 'I'm a dark, bad-tempered wizard. Leave me be, or I'll hex you'. Needless to say, it achieved the desired effect. But appearances can be deceiving. Being unusually sensitive to touch, each article of clothing was always of the purest silk or cotton. The clothing appeared rather simple, but one outfit alone cost a rather scandalous amount of money. Comfort was important to him. What did he need to save his money for, anyway?  
  
'I can't stand grey, so what else is there but black? I've always liked black. It's a very solemn yet dignified color. It also makes me look as severe and callous on the outside as I am within, so it saves me the trouble of having to so scathingly convince others of said fact. And I think navy blue is absolutely horrid; reminds me of school uniforms and the muggle military.' He shuddered at that thought. Although he was now forced to bend to it like a willow in a hurricane, in his innermost spirit, he would never bow to authority. He had never been violently rebellious like many in his youth, but instead chose to reveal his extreme individuality, stubborn will and unusually profound ideals and beliefs in more subtle, yet infinitely more effective methods. Such as changing the tone of an essay paper just so to artfully infuse what was asked of him with what he wished to convey; or of not conforming to silly standards of what people 'should' look and behave like. He rarely speaks when left to his own devices, but when he does, it is to say something meaningful and worth wasting the breath to express it. His solemn and austere ways had always frightened others off; most could not understand someone who so adamantly kept to themself and refused to bow to social standards. Someone so dark and secretive.   
  
'Hmm...it's early yet. Perhaps I'll get to class before those sniveling brats do, for once. How delightful it will be, seeing their little faces contort in panic upon discovering, to their most distressing horror, that they've awoken to their worst nightmare awaiting them in all his demonic glory.'  
  
He smirked mirthlessly at this thought. Contrary to popular belief, he was not a monster, nor insensitive. He just completely lacked the desire to conceal his honest opinions and thoughts from others, and was equally unconcerned at their reactions to his rather direct turn of phrase. He had long ago quit caring what others thought of him. To be sure, the old, self-effacing thoughts still dragged themselves mercilessly through his mind whenever he was regarded askance, or when whispers flitted unbidden through the multitude of his thoughts, or when he saw the murderous look in the eye of a student after he had carelessly and publicly degraded whatever it was they had poured their hearts into. So they insisted, anyway. But though the cruel little voice of long ago had become habit and still hissed vicious little taunts rather consistently, it did not have the same effect that it'd had on him as a young boy. He merely accepted that he was a malicious bastard and moved on to the next innocent. For he no longer was one. Perhaps he'd never even been born one, for surely no one of pure origins would have gravitated to all that was vile and depraved, such as he had. No, he had always been a disgrace to humanity, and he accepted this truth and lived within it. But what made him really bad, truly evil, was the fact that he took pleasure–even in the smallest measure–out of this belief. He stretched his closed mouth into a mirthless smile, mocking himself. He pulled on his teaching robes, straightened himself out, and went to the door. Indulging in one last glance at the shaft of light, he offered it the tiniest smile, as if acknowledging it as a dear friend. Closing his eyes for a moment, he basked once more in its safety and warmth. As his eyes slowly opened, the faint smile slipped from his face, leaving it placid and expressionless once more. He lowered his head and turned to the door, and away from his sanctuary. Looking back up, the usual frown etched over his features, he cleared his mind and readied himself for the outside world, and all that comes with it.   
  
'Well, go get them, 'Snivellus'. Time to make the little children cry.' 


	2. The Girl Who Strives

This chapter focuses solely on Hermione, and her general perception of the world. There will be other characters and more interaction between them in the chapters to follow. This is an introduction to Hermione's character. Here we go:  
  
  
  
Beneath the Surface  
  
'The Girl Who Strives'  
  
The harsh, yellow glare of the early morning sun seeped through the cracks and creases in the draperies of the windows above each bed, conveniently finding and resting upon each sleeping head. Morning had come, and it was time to get up, and get ready for the long day ahead.   
  
Some of the children moaned and tried to shield their eyes from the bright intrusion that sought to take them from their dreams, while others accepted its light as a cheery reminder that the day had begun. There was only one for whom yesterday hadn't yet ended. This one was now sitting up in bed, knees bent nearly to chest, her small body hunched over a thick tome that had been propped up on slim thighs. Despite the hour, her eyes were alert and hungry as they flitted swiftly from left to right, her mind voraciously devouring each passage, each phrase, each word that her eyes took in. She had refused to acknowledge the need to rest for many a night now, and the gentle pull of slumber had increasingly desisted each time that she ignored it. So engrossed was she in this latest fascination (the subject of her current book was Animagi and how to discover your animal identity) that she failed to notice the sleepy grumblings and groggy shuffling of the other girls that occupied her dorm as they set about getting ready for classes, as well as the occasional rolled eyes and whispered taunts thrown her way as they passed her bed. Either because she was so caught up in her reading or that she was simply used to being insulted, one could not say.   
  
In any case, her notoriously singular concentration had just been rather rudely disturbed by a dull, painful thud coming from the left of her bed. She jumped with a start, the book falling from her lap. She rubbed her eyes before looking to see what had happened, as she was accustomed to her sight being blurry after a night of reading. As the room swam into focus, she saw that about four girls had gathered around one gangly blonde one who was laying on the floor just in front of the bed, her legs sprawled clumsily on some textbooks that had been haphazardly resting there.  
  
"Ouch!! Bloody 'ell, who left these here?!" the annoyed girl on the floor shouted, rubbing her elbow as she struggled to rise. The others helped her up as she dusted off her pyjamas. "They're yours, aren't they?"  
  
"I–well–"  
  
"Of course they're hers!" another girl with a pointed chin and dark hair said to the 'injured' one. "She leaves them just lying around like that every morning, not even caring if other people trip on them." The second girl now directed her attention to the one who had been so engrossed in her reading mere seconds ago. "Honestly, can't you sleep for just one night like the rest of us?! Just because you want to be better than everyone else doesn't mean that you can neglect their health as well as your own."  
  
This comment angered her. Used to insults as she was, she was most sensitive about the ones directed at her intelligence, rather than the common shots at her appearance. She wasn't an unattractive person, but she was not what one would call a 'classic beauty'. Indeed, she was rather pleasant to look at; her beauty was otherworldly rather than commonplace, and it would take one with tastes that differ from the ordinary to appreciate her fully.   
  
She had always been shorter than the other girls her age by at least a couple of inches, and her tiny, delicate bones only made her seem more diminutive. In comparison to the others in her year, she appeared fragile, almost breakable. She had always been slim, but her demanding study habits and tendency to only pick at her food–when she found the desire to eat at all–had rendered her underweight by at least ten pounds, which is a lot for a growing child. Her bushy hair–not curly nor wavy but, seemingly indecisive on whether to be both or either, was rather frizzy–all but accentuated her small stature. She had dark brown, gravely straightforward eyes that told of her serious demeanor, and with her unusually quick wit and mental prowess, she gave one the impression of an adult mind locked up in an child's body. Needless to say, this mature quality did nothing to endear her to her peers. She was no stranger to ostracism, and so had developed a sort of resistance to it. But nothing could quell her well-hid fury at the common human than when those who did not understand her dedication to knowledge maligned her for it. She regarded her current attacker with an air of superiority, the slight sneer that rose on one side of her nose the only betrayer of her deep-seated anger at the same old method of combat being used against her once again.  
  
"Even if I'm the only one in this House who actually works to get us points?" she smirked at the other girls' muted gasps of outrage. Indeed, she had hit them where it hurt. "Why, if it weren't for me and my 'unhealthy habits', I'd bet that we would barely have ten points to our name", she finished contemptuously, tossing her bushy hair at them as she turned to scoot off her bed and get ready for class. She ignored their venomous glares and snorts of disbelief as she made her way past them to the girls' bathroom. Only when she was safely locked away in one of the toilets did she finally release a sigh of frustration at her forever unchanging lot in life. But she did not shed any tears over it.   
  
No, she never shed tears. It was her belief that breaking down and crying was giving up. If she analyzed these thoughts more closely, she would have realized that, to her, crying symbolized giving in and accepting whatever circumstance had created such an emotion in her. And she feared that loss of her control more than anything.  
  
She was solitary by nature, and by choice she would rather study than play their silly games or waste hours on inane chatter, but every once in a while the acute sting of their rejection would seep under her skin and into her mind. This last incident with her books being one of those times, she sighed once more, ran her hands through her disheveled hair and stood herself up proud and tall before exiting the stall. As she closed the door behind her, so, too did she leave the anger and frustration she had been battling with in the stall. She made a mental note never to use that stall again (the third from the left), for it was now associated with feelings of loneliness and aggravation, even if it were the only one available five minutes before class was to begin. She hated being late, but she hated having to dwell on anything that had upset her much more. Truly, the only battles she ever conceded to were the ones fought within her own mind.   
  
She was one of only three people still in the bathroom, which suited her fine, as she liked her privacy when getting ready. She went over to an ornate, yet tastefully designed rose marble and gold sink that had enough room for matching shelving. Above the sink rested a moderately large oval mirror. Each inhabitant of the dorm was entitled to their very own, personal sink, and she had chosen the one furthest from the door and closest to the high and large window at the end of the bathroom. She was too short to see more than the top of her frizzy head in the mirror, but that was just as well. She didn't give much thought to her appearance; no, all of her concentration was devoted to study and learning. As long as she looked merely presentable, she was satisfied. So she picked up the simple wooden brush from the shelf and steeled herself before wringing it through her hair. Taking a second to wonder why her scalp wasn't numb after years of daily abuse, she squeezed her eyes shut and brought the brush to the top of her head. It was still there several moments later, tangled hopelessly in her tresses as she fought with both hands to free it. Realizing that she would never be able to untangle this mess naturally–and thanking the powers that be that she was born a witch–she went back to the dorm, got her wand from a drawer in her nightstand and returned to the bathroom with it. She scanned her mind for the proper de-tangling charm in the encyclopedia-like wealth of knowledge she possessed, and smiled in satisfaction as she came across the best one. Nodding once in satisfaction, she lifted her wand and performed a small series of flicks and swishes around her hair while intoning the proper words; a rosy color shimmered around her head for a moment, and then the brush fell to the floor easily. Her hair was also free of tangles and snarls as well (although, of course, it was still rather frizzy). She smiled at her results, running a hand through her now softer hair.   
  
'I don't care what anyone says, it definitely does pay to study in advance over the summer.'  
  
With an impish smile still clinging to her lips, she quickly brushed her teeth and washed her face. Glancing at her watch (a thin, red band with a simple silver watch-face that she never took off; she took great pride in her unfailing punctuality), she absently noted that she had missed breakfast again. Knowing that class was to start in less than fifteen minutes, she hurried back to her room to don her school robes, which hung in a large, cherry-wood wardrobe that was used by the entire dorm. She pulled a pair of red-and-yellow striped knee socks (which she found rather silly, but everyone in Gryffindor had been issued several pairs of them) out of the top drawer of her bureau, fastened on her black mary-janes, and stood before the full-length mirror at the back of the room to fix her tie (it was always lop-sided, as she had never learned to tie one before starting school at Hogwarts) and check her overall appearance. A bit rumpled, but decent enough for her. She got together the books that she would need for the day, tied them into a book strap and then hauled them to the door.   
  
'Blasted heavy things, but all necessary.'  
  
She went down the spiral staircase to the common room (very elegantly done in red and gold), and then proceeded to the portrait of the Fat Lady. She smiled and nodded a greeting to her--which was politely returned--and then the Fat Lady shifted her portrait aside so the girl was able to pass through. Knowing that she was pressed for time, she flung her books out of the portal and then shuffled through it herself, jumping out and landing as gracefully as she could, then straightened her robes. She glanced quickly at her watch, doing a double take when she realized that she had little more than five minutes to get to class.  
  
'Oh, no! I've never been late before. I CAN'T be late!!'  
  
Panic began to overtake her, and she walked as fast as she could through hallways, down shifting staircases, and past corridors with the burden of the heavy textbooks banging against her leg with every step. 'Calm down, you're almost there', she tried to soothe herself as her breathing became increasingly labored, due more to panic than to the long speed-walk she had undertaken. Just as she was sure she would cry from fear of getting a detention for being tardy (something as frightening as it was foreign to her), she heard a voice call her name. The clumsy, rapid thumping of children's feet could be heard echoing softly down the darkened corridor.  
  
"Hermione!" It was the voice of a young boy, and he sounded exasperated but not angry. "Hermione, wait up! It's us!"  
  
The girl smiled in relief, letting out a sigh as she turned around to face her pursuers. If she was to be late to class, she wouldn't be late alone. It was her (only) two friends, Harry and Ron, racing to catch up with her. Harry was smiling good-naturedly at her, while Ron was stuffing a napoleon from breakfast into his mouth.  
  
"Hermione, where have you been? You weren't at breakfast", Harry asked her.  
  
"Again", Ron chided through his mouthful of pastry.   
  
"Sorry, guys. Guess I overslept again", she said apologetically, her eyes darting around nervously from the white lie. But, although she was most certainly not a good liar, Harry and Ron accepted her excuse with rolled eyes and an absent nod. She wondered then--as she often did--if they would even care if she had told them the truth. They were good friends and fun to be with, but every once in a while she suspected that they just kept her along with them because she was such an advantage intelligence-wise. They often asked her for help with homework and the like and consulted her for the more difficult aspects of plotting and ezecuting their schemes (magically or otherwise), but never did they engage in a real, friendly conversation with her. She noticed that whenever she interjected her opinion in one of their debates or tried to tell them about her own life and personal feelings and problems, they would either trail off or look the other way, seemingly bored with what she had to say, and this hurt her more than she would ever admit to even herself. Perhaps she was just being touchy (as she was wont to be, what with her volatile temper) and imagining things, or maybe this was the way friends behaved with one another. She was not an authority on friendship (one of the few subjects she knew near to nothing of), having had very little experience with it. But it was the guilt for even having these suspicions about Harry and Ron that made her keep her mouth shut about it. They were good to befriend her in the first place, and they did have some great times and laughs together. She told herself she was lucky that they even included her in their playful banter, and she didn't have the right to jeopardize their friendship with her silly accusations and wounded pride.  
  
The three were standing for a moment to catch their breath when Hermione again checked her watch. Her eyes widened. "Blast!! Come on, we have to go!" She resettled her books over her shoulder and hurried down the corridor. The two boys were several steps behind her. She threw her head over her shoulder and fixed them with a panicked glare. "Get moving, you two. We're going to be late!!"  
  
"It's alright, Hermione", Ron said confidently, although he and Harry hurried to catch up with her. "It's only Care of Magical Creatures. Hagrid doesn't care of we're a little late, you know that."   
  
The three stopped dead in their tracks for a second, Harry and Hermione staring at Ron in confusion.  
  
"W-what?" he asked unsurely. "It is Wednesday, right?"  
  
Harry slapped a hand to his forehead in exasperation, conveniently covering his scar. "You idiot! That's tomorrow. Today's Tuesday!"  
  
"That's what I thought", she said in annoyance, mostly at the prospect of actually being mistaken about scheduling. In her haze of panic, she'd forgotten what class they did have, though she was going the right to reach it out of sheer habit. Autopilot. Being halfway down the transfiguration wing with her programmed journey broken, she was now unsure of where they should be heading. "Then what do we have?" she mumbled thoughtfully.   
  
Her eyes widened, as did those of the two boys, as the three simultaneously realized what, indeed, their first class of the day was.   
  
"Oh, no...", Harry uttered ominously.  
  
"Potions", Ron groaned, putting a hand across his face dramatically.   
  
"He gets especially angry when people are late, especially Gryffindors", she said softly, her voice quavering with fear. She didn't even need to say just who 'he' was; they all knew. The Potions Master of Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was probably, for anyone who'd had the uniquely disturbing pleasure of making his acquaintance, the second most feared person in the wizarding world. There was no need to say who the first was; they all knew his name, too. Hermione was not one who gave in to fear easily, but she did find it quite difficult to keep her composure when faced with his towering, fearful presence. She gulped in trepidation of having to face him, but, steeling her nerves, she bravely continued onward, with Harry and Ron in tow.  
  
Still several corridors and another (non-mobile, thank the gods) staircase away from the Dungeons where Potions class was held, they knew they would all get a ludicrous amount of points taken off Gryffindor and detention for their tardiness. If that was all, they were lucky. Realizing this, they all looked at each other, fright etched over their features.  
  
"SHIT!!!!" they shouted in unison, tearing down the hall faster than they had ever run before. If any staff member saw them, nothing came of it, for they probably knew just where they were running to and were more than familiar with the dangers that awaited them there, should they be late. Or so the children would later deduce.   
  
'Four months in a new school, and a detention already?! You'd better make up for this tonight, Granger. No lunch, dinner, OR breakfast for you!!' 


	3. Impossible to Ignore

Beneath the Surface  
  
Chapter the thirde: Impossible to Ignore  
  
Upon subsequent reflection, Hermione thought that it would have been much more intelligent for herself, Harry and Ron to have sneaked into the classroom quietly so as not to draw undue attention to themselves; rather than barging in breathlessly without a thought, as they had done. They would have been found out either way--Professor Snape never misses the smallest transgression in his classroom--but the former method might have saved them in some small measure from the severe scolding they had received, as well as the twenty points deducted from Gryffindor (for each of them) and the detentions they'd been assigned for that night. Separate ones, at that; Ron had been given a detention with Professor Mcgonagall, Harry with Argus Filch, the caretaker, and Hermione with Professor Snape himself. And all this in front of the entire class, no less. Now most of the Gryffindors were annoyed with them, and the Slytherins had one more reason to ridicule and humiliate them. Gods, but Professor Snape could be a merciless bastard!   
  
But even after that distinctly cruel tongue-lashing he'd given her, Hermione still respected him greatly. She was not of the belief that fear inspired respect in a person, and though it seemed he most definitely was to one who had ever witnessed the way he ran his classroom, she admired him all the same. She had researched the backgrounds of all her professors during the first week of school (so entranced was she with this new, magical world and all that these esteemed people had to offer her), and had found their Potions Master to be singularly intelligent. He had received the highest marks on all of his O.W.L.'s and N.E.W.T's than anyone in centuries (his score in Potions was actually the highest ever recorded), as well as earning, throughout his academic career, among the highest marks ever inscribed in the annals of Hogwarts history. Certain essays and articles on various subjects that he had written during his youth had been published in esteemed magazines and quarterlies, and he had been lauded by witches and wizards far older than himself for his gift with the written word as well as the fierce intelligence with which he expressed himself. But for some unknown reason, he had not done anything of note after graduating from Hogwarts, and his biography had abruptly ended upon his leaving unceremoniously, as if even the author hadn't expected it. Although this severely baffled Hermione, she respected anyone with a thirst for learning, and her Potions Professor was indeed among the most academically intelligent people she knew. Thus, she thirsted for his respect, as a plant would thirst for water. She would probably have chosen a long evening stroll in the Forbidden Forest to being on the receiving end of his legendary wrath, but simply being allowed to sit in his classroom and listen to him share a part of his tremendous knowledge with them, or be able to witness the unerring skill with which he performed every potion was one of the greatest gifts she had ever received; so she was willing to overlook his gloomy demeanor and bitingly acidic comments. Although she tried very hard to be a model student in his class, more often than not her stubborn nature, Gryffindor morals and tempestuous temper got the better of her, and she ended up talking back or protesting his merciless teaching methods. Genius or not, the man was definitely a tyrant.   
  
'But I'd much rather have detention with him than with someone like Filch. Some people are still complaining about the cleaning he made them do', Hermione thought, shuddering as she recalled the horror stories she'd heard about bathroom duty. 'Poor Harry. ...Wait! This might not be so bad. Maybe Professor Snape will let me help him with an experiment or something. Now that would be quite an opportunity to get inside his head, as well as possibly on his good side. No, this might not be so bad at all!'   
  
Hermione smiled to herself and then returned her full attention to Snape's lesson.   
  
.....  
  
"...Now, can anyone tell me what happens if too much belladonna is ingested?" He surveyed the room, noticing with irritation–yet not surprise–that only one all-too-familiar hand had risen. He scowled and gave a long-suffering sigh. "Oh, come now, *children*, this is an unusually simple question. You should all have known this long before you entered this school."   
  
The students continued to stare at him (never turn your back on a dangerous person, is how they saw it), now with more apprehension, but only that same, solitary hand was rising higher and with more fervor, unaccompanied by any other. He lowered his head in defeat, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to soothe his headache, which had begun in exhaustion and escalated in frustration.   
  
"Very well," he muttered in grudging submission, not bothering to raise his head. "Miss Granger, what is it?"  
  
Hermione straightened up in her seat in elation, even though she knew that he was always loathe to call on her. She just loved to be the giver of answers, the solver of problems. She stood up confidently and cleared her throat before enunciating the answer clearly in her high, bell-toned voice. "If one consumes a dangerous amount of the belladonna plant, they will first go into a hallucinogenic stupor, and ultimately perish. But if a measured amount is used, the plant can be a very effective reliever of pain. It originated as a witch's--"  
  
"Miss Granger, forgive me, but I must stop you before you go on one of your lengthy and obscure diatribes, for, informative as they may be, they are hardly necessary to the topic of discussion at hand", Professor Snape snapped in mocking politeness, putting up a hand in his need to silence her. Hermione's shoulders slumped dejectedly, knowing that nothing she said would do her any good. She had originally thought that Professor Snape would be impressed with her knowledge, like all of her other teachers, but instead it seemed he resented her for it. Upon lengthy reflection, she'd decided that, since he was the Slytherin Head of House and had once been a Slytherin student himself, the reason for his animosity towards her was not that he resented her intelligence, but that he found fault with her very Gryffindor ways of expressing it. She had failed in pleasing him this time, but she promised herself that the next time he called on her, she would do her very best to behave in a reserved and obedient manner, and give only the answer to the question he asked her and nothing more. It was all a matter of being attentive.  
  
"Miss Granger!"   
  
Hermione started violently, her eyes going wide as she realized that she had already broken the promise she'd just made to herself. She cringed inwardly as her eyes shot questioningly to Professor Snape.   
  
"You may take your seat now," he pronounced bitingly. She immediately sank into her chair, her cheeks growing crimson with embarrassment. The Slytherins erupted into muffled giggles, as they usually did when their Head of House taunted a Gryffindor. Professor Snape made no move to silence them, instead fixing the entire class with a sharp glare before turning on his heel to stalk over to his cluttered desk and sit down behind it. The students collectively straightened and quieted as he sat, for he only did so when he was about to assign that night's homework. They also knew that it was now ten minutes to the end of class, and, almost more eager to be rid of his students than they were to be rid of him, Professor Snape was all the more willing to give out detentions to anyone who disturbed the class and therefore lengthened the time it took for everyone to finish up and get out of there.   
  
"Now," he intoned ominously. "Your assignment for tonight will be...", he slanted his eyes and inclined his head ever so slightly upwards as he pondered on that night's punishment. 'That little know-it-all, Granger. I should serve her five feet alone! But that would be overtly unfair, and I can't take any more dissension among the ranks....Those superior prats of mine did snigger some awful things about her, things that were undeserved, no matter how annoying she can get. That offense should get them at least three feet....But those damned Gryffindors are irritating just being in existence! So, there we have it. The entire class has troubled me. Very well.'   
  
The children were all watching him with raised eyebrows and baited breath, awaiting their sentence for the day's behavior and hoping that he would be lenient. Alas, it was not to be.   
  
"I want three feet on the properties, purposes, and both the historical and current uses of belladonna on my desk by Thursday. Class dismissed."   
  
The student body let out a painful groan and some gasped in outrage. They continued to stare at him in shock and disbelief, hoping that he would retract his pronouncement and show them mercy. Seeing that they hadn't moved, he fixed the class with a withering sneer.   
  
"I said GET OUT!"  
  
The children all started visibly, and began gathering their things together as reality sunk in. The Professor ignored them as they shuffled past his desk, grumbling just loudly enough so that he could make out certain choice words such as 'unfair', 'tyrant', and 'git'. He took a cracked leather binder from atop a pile on the left corner of his desk and flipped it open to a chart near the end, dipped his quill in its inkwell, and with a flourish he bent to begin recording notes. Before the raven-feather quill touched the parchment, however, he was disturbed by a tiny coughing noise that came from just in front of his desk. He pressed his eyelids together as he remembered that he had asked Granger to see him after class to schedule her detention. Still bent over his notebook, he lifted his head to stare into her eyes sardonically. He knew how it unnerved the poor child. Her eyelids flickered in surprise, but they did not leave his as she waited patiently for him to acknowledge her formally.  
  
"Miss Granger," he pronounced softly. She was obviously trying to conceal her nerves at being so close to him, and it seemed out of that nervousness that she offered him a small, trembling smile in return to his terse greeting. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and, more out of surprise that she even offered it to him in the first place than actual revulsion, his lip lifted in a sneer, as if he were disgusted with her naivete. She flinched inwardly, the only outward appearance of her disappointment in herself the sudden darkness that came over her eyes. Snape noticed her disquiet and unconsciously raised his eyebrow at her in confusion. She blinked and cast her eyes downwards. Snape cleared his throat, not knowing at all what to do in this rather awkward situation, or even why it was so awkward in the first place.   
  
"I see you're eager to schedule your detention. Let's take a look, then...," he said without enthusiasm, taking a small green notebook from a drawer in his desk. He leafed through it for a moment, his eyes quickly following his index finger as he ran it down the pages. Finally, he found an available slot in his busy schedule (almost laughably so, he'd thought, for one so reluctant to enter this line of work) for Miss Granger's detention. "Well," he murmured, and then raised his eyes to meet Hermione's once more. "It appears that the only reasonable time I have free for you this entire week is...tonight at six thirty. Will that do for you, Miss Granger?" he asked her condescendingly.   
  
"Yes, sir," she replied softly. "That should be fine."  
  
"See that it is," he cautioned sternly, and with a stiff nod in her direction, he bowed his head and returned to his notes, his lank hair sweeping into his face as he did so. Still upset that she couldn't reach him, Hermione remained standing before him as she pondered his embittered attitude, unconsciously observing him as she thought.   
  
He was frantically scratching something down in the notebook in his severely slanting, elegant script, which was nearly illegible in its antiquated style. But she was not concentrating on the words he was writing; she was studying his posture and expression as he wrote them. He was bent over the parchment so closely that his hawkish nose nearly touched it, his elbows bracing his hunched body on the desk. He was so tense that Hermione could see his shoulder blades protruding from his heavy black robes. His brow was furrowed in intense concentration as the quill flicked from the inkwell to the parchment in swift, fluid strokes; his refined, black eyebrows hooded over the blackest eyes she'd ever seen. Come to think of it...  
  
'I've never seen anyone with black eyes before...'  
  
As if she had spoken this thought aloud, Snape's head suddenly shot up to meet her, his sharp eyes narrowing as he sought hers out once again. A thick strand of his jet hair remained hanging between his eyes, but he made no move to brush it away.  
  
'And I thought she'd be the easiest of the three to deal with...'  
  
"Miss Granger, may I inquire as to why you are *still here*?" he demanded of her coldly, his commanding voice seeming to ring in the vastness of the dungeons, although the tone he used was soft. He had evidently assumed she'd left at his unspoken dismissal, so engrossed had he been in his writing.   
  
"I...I--," she stuttered weakly, having been quite startled by his sudden awareness of her presence; not to mention surprised at herself for remaining to simply study him after it was obvious he'd dismissed her. It seemed she couldn't move, or that she'd forgotten she even possessed the ability of locomotion. Professor Snape rolled his eyes and sighed tiredly.  
  
"Miss Granger, if that is quite all, I'm afraid I must insist that you depart my classroom. You are dismissed," he commanded authoritatively. She knew that he would brook no arguments or apologies, so she nodded shakily and immediately turned to walk as quickly as she could out of the room.   
  
Snape's shrewd eyes followed her as she left, his earlier confusion at her strange behavior returning to his features. He did not often allow a student's personal (or even academic) affairs to occupy his mind for any lengthy period of time, but he could not seem to ignore this Miss Granger's apparent distress. True, whether he cared or not (most often the latter applied) for a person, he was very finely tuned emotionally, and could sense the...auras, for lack of a better word, of others with ease. But this did not mean that he was moved to alleviate their suffering or anguish, or whatever the case may be; he merely recognized it within them. (Gifted he was with such an unusual psychic sight, but blessed he was not with a great deal of empathy.) He was not exactly *moved* in this situation either, but he found that he simply could not *ignore* Miss Granger. 


	4. Sparks of Suspicion, Parte the Firste

A/N: Just f.y.i., some parts of this chapter will deal with the canon of the Trio's suspicion that Snape was after the Sorcerer's Stone (as this part of my story is set in their first year at Hogwarts). I trust most of you (if not all) who come across this story have read the Harry Potter books, and already know how these suspicions arose, how they knew of the Stone in the first place, and, well, anything having to do with that subplot. I will not elaborate on those things here (as I hate repeating things I've already readXP, and it doesn't seem necessary because we all know what happens anyway and it's boring to read another's version of it, in my opinion), so it may often seem that certain conversations and occurrences having to do with the Sorcerer's Stone come out of nowhere, but that's really because I am expecting that you all already know what occurs from having read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone by J.K. Rowling (who continues to own the entire HP universe and its characters).  
  
Okay, that was long and convoluted, but I think you get my point^^;. Okay, on with the story:  
  
Beneath the Surface  
  
  
  
Chapter the fourthe: Sparks of Suspicion  
  
Parte the Firste  
  
Though she would have preferred to do her work in the quiet confines of her dorm (there was hardly anyone there before nightfall, as the majority of the girls preferred to roam the castle or lounge in the Common Room before curfew), she tolerated the constant noise and activity of the Common Room to spend time with her friends.   
  
It was in this room that Harry had voiced his growing suspicion that Professor Snape was after the Sorcerer's Stone. For what reason, he did not yet know; but he did know that his scar had burned painfully when he'd first set eyes on the malevolent Professor, and the man's surly demeanor and air of mystery did nothing to make an innocent of him.   
  
Ron, for his part, was more than eager to side with Harry, despite his lack of evidence. Anyone who favored Malfoy over his kind, honorable friends could not be a good person in*his* opinion.  
  
Hermione had ignored their accusations at first, being unwilling to ever doubt the integrity of a teacher. She didn't think that anyone whose job it was to teach them the ways of the world could or *should* ever be disputed or doubted. Although some of the things that Harry said made sense, there just wasn't enough evidence to prove that Snape had his eye on the Stone.  
  
But each time she witnessed her Potions Professor darting narrowed eyes about or looking behind his back when he thought no one was looking, her distrust in him grew a notch higher.   
  
But such suspicions had not yet conquered her ingrained sense of loyalty to her academic superiors. Not yet.  
  
"Poor Hermione", Ron cooed sympathetically, releasing her from her academic stupor.  
  
She sighed in annoyance, yet a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.   
  
"Yes, poor, poor Hermione," Harry agreed somberly.  
  
"I wouldn't start in, Harry," Hermione admonished. "Don't forget, *you* have detention with Filch."  
  
Ron guffawed loudly and pointed his finger at Harry. "She's right, mate. You'll be cleaning the toilets with a toothbrush until Winter break!"  
  
Ron's laughter was suddenly cut off as Harry's shoulder rammed into his gut. Ron responded to this by pushing Harry roughly to the floor, where they proceeded to wrestle like little boys; all in good fun. Hermione rolled her eyes at their childish behavior and returned to her reading.  
  
The three friends had settled into the Gryffindor Common Room after classes, as they and many of their peers often did, to catch up with their friends and work on homework together. Though in the case of Hermione, Harry and Ron, it was mainly the former who did the homework and the latter two who did the catching up.   
  
The familiar scenario was playing itself out yet again as Hermione struggled to concentrate on researching the belladonna plant for her Potions parchment, despite the ruckus from the two on the floor. She intended to have every inch of the three feet required of them accounted for on her parchment, and all of it meaningful and on topic. She had learnt from experience that Professor Snape did not appreciate obscure factual rambling going on for an extra foot or so, and would criticize her incisively for it in sprawling black script across her essays. It was clear that Professor Snape wanted precisely what he asked for and not a bit more; he brought new meaning to the term 'exacting'. She took this as another hard lesson to be learned, and was determined not to disappoint him in any measure *this* time.   
  
It had seemed that the dispute on the carpet had at last been resolved, and Harry and Ron were dusting off their robes and straightening their hair. Harry pushed his glasses up higher on his nose, and through them he saw that Hermione was still slaving away at her Potions parchment, an intensely focused expression etched over her delicate features.  
  
"Hermione, you've been at it for hours," Harry sighed, shaking his head in amusement. "Why don't you take a break and we'll play chess or something?"  
  
"Harry." She turned from her work and favored him with a stern expression. "I think the last thing you two should be doing right now is playing around. You haven't done any of your work for tonight, and we have a test in Herbology tomorrow!"   
  
The two boys rolled their eyes at her playfully.  
  
"Yes, but we're not discussing us, are we? We're discussing you! You shouldn't be working so hard all of the time. Goodness knows you don't need to!"  
  
Hermione blinked sharply. Although she was sure he'd said that more to change the subject from himself and Ron than out of genuine concern for her well-being, she was flattered all the same. A warm feeling spread through her torso and a blush heated her cheeks. She shifted in her seat and looked away in an attempt to cover up her reaction to the simple sentence.  
  
"Well, thank you for your concern, but I'm fine, really. I just want to get a perfect score in Potions for once, and that's going to take a lot of work."  
  
"I can't believe you actually care what Professor Snape thinks of you!" Ron exclaimed angrily, more at Snape than at his friend. "You know that if you were in Slytherin you'd be his favorite student!"  
  
Hermione pursed her lips and regarded him with a skeptical expression.  
  
"Well, you should!" he shouted in exasperation. "Everyone else does. Even the Slytherins, I'll bet! Anyway, hasn't he already gotten enough out of you as it is? You barely have time to finish dinner tonight before you have to report to his dungeons!"  
  
"Calm down, Ron," Harry said, putting a hand on Ron's shoulder in an attempt to placate him. "I'm sure she knows." He turned to Hermione with a serious expression. "But he does have a point. I mean, you remember what I told you about Snape--"  
  
"*Professor* Snape," she corrected.  
  
"...Sure. But doesn't it make you wonder about him, even a little? If it were me, I wouldn't be so eager to work this hard for a possible thief!"  
  
"You never have, Harry," Hermione scolded tonelessly, her arms crossed. She shook her head and shrugged. "I'm sorry, but I just can't judge a person–not even a person, a Professor!–based on supposition and hearsay. It just isn't fair."  
  
"But it all makes perfect sense!" Ron said, throwing up his hands to illustrate his point. "Sure, we don't know that Snape--"  
  
"*Professor* Snape."  
  
"Whatever! We don't know for certain that he's going to try and steal the Stone, but we do know that someone is causing a lot of strange things to happen around here, and he's the most likely suspect! I mean, look at him!–He's practically admitted his guilt just by existing!!"  
  
"Ron! That's a very closed-minded, not to mention silly, thing to say! You should know better than to judge someone based on their appearance," Hermione insisted, having risen and placed her hands on her hips. Two pairs of confused, round eyes were the only answer she received. Realizing how hard she was fighting to prove Professor Snape's innocence–something even *she* wasn't quite certain of–she grew embarrassed and knew that the only way out of this little situation was by changing the subject, using her superior powers of intellectual persuasion. She raised her watch to her eyes. "My, but time seems to fly faster and faster lately. It's already time for dinner!"  
  
Their entire conversation forgotten, she was rewarded with a clean slate with the boys as they grinned wildly and began to rush towards the portrait hole. As Harry began to climb out of the room, Ron whipped his head around to look at her, a goofy grin plastered on his face.  
  
"Come on, Hermione! This is the best period of the day!"  
  
She laughed at their boyish excitement over such a simple thing as eating. After turning to quickly close and lock her notes with a spell, she rushed off to join them, doing her best to work up an appetite before a long detention with Professor Snape in the cold, dark and lonely dungeons beneath the castle. 


	5. Sparks of Suspicion, Parte the Seconde

Beneath the Surface  
  
  
  
Chapter the Fourthe: Spark of Suspicion  
  
Parte the Seconde  
  
  
  
Hermione had chased after her overzealously hungry friends all the way to the Great Hall, where all of the school's meals were taken. Harry and Ron slid easily into their seats at the Gryffindor table and picked up their knives and forks, ready for their dinner to appear (as meals tended to do in Hogwarts), while Hermione slumped breathlessly into her place across from them. She put a small hand to her head, which was now spinning from her unaccustomed exertion and the lack of sustenance to support the energy it took out of her. She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, willing her body to regain its equilibrium.   
  
Harry and Ron had been studying her with consternation, and it seemed as if they had been about to say something to her when the meal suddenly appeared before them. Totally consumed in the loading up of their plates and the swift dispatching of the food into their gullets, they had forgotten her. She let out a silent breath in relief. It always made her uncomfortable when others noticed something amiss with her or inquired of her health; it felt as though they had noticed that she was not doing the best job of being in control of her life, which, she felt, was now her responsibility at Hogwarts, and that prospect both frightened and unnerved her. Almost more so than the thought of failing herself and losing the control she so coveted.  
  
Suddenly she felt a prickling of her senses which fully alerted her to her surroundings. She straightened immediately and grew wary. It felt as though someone was watching her.  
  
~*~  
  
'Ah, at last the 'Golden Trio' have arrived,' Professor Severus Snape thought sourly to himself, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the moniker. 'Now we can all commence with the stuffing of our faces; for we simply *couldn't* rightly begin anything without the privilege of their esteemed presence!'   
  
He observed them bitterly, with a grudging curiosity. 'There they go, filling themselves already.... My goodness, the food's not going anywhere!' He sneered, thoroughly disgusted with the eating habits of Potter and Weasley, and turned his attention to their female counterpart. The sneer slowly slid from his features as he regarded the girl, who seemed to be quite troubled. Her tiny hand was clutched in that unwieldy mane of hers, her eyelids pressed together tightly. He raised a curious eyebrow ever so slightly.   
  
'What could be the matter with that little thing?' He wondered. Then his expression darkened in a manner very familiar to him, the eyebrow slowly lowering to meet the other in a calculating frown. 'Ah,' he thought disdainfully. 'She must be all in a panic over her upcoming detention with 'the greasy bat from hell', or whatever it is they've now taken to calling me. Well, I'll make sure that her worst nightmares are realized toni--'  
  
"Severus!" a jovial voice called out, disturbing his mind from its sinister musings. "I see you've arrived early this evening. Regained our appetite, have we?"  
  
Snape smirked in recognition, but his dour expression was pierced by a certain warmth and amusement. He didn't need to look up to know who was addressing him. "No, Headmaster. I'm merely attempting to get the evening meal over with so that I can be at my unmerciful best at my detention tonight without being distracted by hunger."  
  
"You have detention, Severus? You must have done something truly awful to merit such a fate, my boy. I wasn't aware that a Professor could be assigned detention!" Albus Dumbledore chided merrily.   
  
"And I wasn't aware that a wizard of your caliber could go senile," Snape said dryly, not responding to the Headmaster's strange sense of humor. Dumbledore chuckled.  
  
"So, who's the lucky student that has incurred your considerable wrath this time?"  
  
"Try three," Snape droned. "A rather famous three, at that."  
  
"They can't get anything past you, can they?" Dumbledore conceded in mock seriousness.  
  
"No, they most certainly can not!" Severus agreed, his expression distant. Then he shut his eyes ruefully and sighed, having accidentally stumbled into one of the Headmaster's little character traps. It was his way of gently mocking the people he cared for. Albus laughed softly to himself in satisfaction.   
  
"Well, Severus, I must say you do have quite a job ahead of you tonight if all three of them will be in your charge," the Headmaster manipulated the subject cheerfully.   
  
"Mmm," Severus murmured absently, his concentration obviously elsewhere. Dumbledore followed his gaze and found that it rested on the three students in question. He saw that Messrs. Potter and Weasley were packing their food away happily, but little Miss Granger seemed to be barely picking at her meal, and forcing herself to do so at that. It was most likely she who had caught Severus' eye, as he had little to no interest in the other two, save for their destruction. And of the three, he was sure that Severus would find her the most tolerable.   
  
The Headmaster's heart warmed at the chance, however slim, that Severus had found it in his hardened compassion to care for the unusual little child, if only a very little. He had bestowed his rare kindnesses on only a few students over the years that he'd worked at Hogwarts, and they had been rather brooding and somber children, much like he had been during his time as a student here.   
  
And though Miss Granger's personality was quite different than Severus', they had certain key similarities: they were both fiercely intelligent, largely misunderstood by the people around them, and rather solitary in nature. It had been so long since Severus had reached out to any of the students, or even spoken a kind word to them, and Albus hoped that he would recognize something of himself in Miss Granger and possibly make a connection with her. The Headmaster had noticed the trouble that constantly brewed in the girl's head, and knew that he was not the right person to speak to her about it. Perhaps a friendship could be forged between the unlikely two. Dumbledore smiled at Severus, who was still lost in thought.  
  
"Severus? What are you looking at?" he asked softly.  
  
"W-what?" Snape was startled back into the conversation. "N-nothing, Albus. I was just planning tonight's detention. You know I cannot abide lateness."  
  
"Yes, I know, Severus," Albus said. Then, he leaned a bit closer to Snape and favored him witch a sagacious smile. "It's a good thing you chose Miss Granger tonight, rather than the other two."  
  
"Indeed," Snape replied softly, again preoccupied with surveying the Hall. Then a suspicious gleam lit his black eyes, and they narrowed as they glanced at the Headmaster from their corners. 'Had I told him that I assigned Miss Granger to my dungeons for her detention?'   
  
But he said nothing, not wishing to arouse the Headmaster's curiosity or mocking wit.   
  
~*~  
  
'Is someone watching me? Perhaps I'm just too tired...,' Hermione mused as her eyes darted surreptitiously around the Great Hall. They rested on each table, scanning the people sitting there; no one was returning her gaze. She sighed, aggravated that she was getting paranoid due to lack of sleep. She rested her head on the heel of her left hand, the position giving her a good view of the Head Table. Her eyes immediately flicked to Professor Snape's spot, as if they had been pulled there magnetically. They widened as she realized why.   
  
The Professor was unabashedly studying her, his eyes shadowed as if deep in thought. As her gaze locked with his, though, he immediately narrowed his black eyes and sneered at her, raising an eyebrow as if she had been the one observing him. She turned away, suddenly ashamed. A dizzying swell of excitement tingled her tired limbs. Why was the one Professor who seemed to hate her so suddenly fascinated with her?   
  
'Wait a minute...,' she frowned, accustomed realization dawning, her body relaxing once again. '*He* was the one looking at *me*. Why should I be the first to turn away?' She looked back at the Head Table tentatively, lest he be looking her way again. He was not.   
  
Professor Snape was staring down at his meal with disgust, his arms crossed tightly to his chest as the Headmaster attempted to chat him up. He had seemed so intently focused on her just a moment ago, and now it seemed something as trivial as his food captivated his attention. A wave of flustered envy washed over her, but she quickly shook it off and replaced it with anger.  
  
'Oh, I know what he's doing. He's trying to prepare me for tonight's detention. My, but that's cold!' she seethed mentally. 'Testing me, they're always testing me! I wonder if I'll ever be able to just relax.'  
  
"What'sh the matter, 'Mione?" Ron asked through his mouthful of food. "You sheem upshet abut shomefing."  
  
"What?" Hermione focused perplexed eyes on him. Harry laughed, covering his mouth in an attempt to hold in his own food. He swallowed hard and took a swig of pumpkin juice.   
  
"He asked what was the matter with you," Harry's gaze suddenly became serious in the sincere, penetrating way that only he could pull off. "I was wondering myself. Is everything all right with you?"  
  
'Well, he seems genuinely concerned. What should I say? I honestly don't know myself why I'm feeling so odd lately. But I really don't want to worry them, especially Harry. He's got enough worries of his own...'. Hermione smiled at them in a reassuring manner. "Oh, I'm just very tired, Harry. Couldn't sleep last night, you know."  
  
"Oh?" Harry persisted, taking another drink from his mug. "Why not?"  
  
"Oh, I don't know. Just restless, I suppose. Don't you ever get like that?"  
  
"Yeah," Ron put in. "I hate it when that happens. You just can't relax and all you can think about is gir--" He suddenly snapped his mouth shut, a cherry-red blush spreading over his face. "I mean, er...I dunno..."   
  
Hermione and Harry looked at each other, the amused shock of innocent childhood written all over their faces. Upon meeting eyes, they couldn't hold it in any longer. They both burst out laughing as Ron continued to mumble excuses to no one in particular. After several moments, their laughter became infectious, and even Ron began to giggle along with them at his own expense, realizing just what a fool he'd inadvertently made of himself.   
  
Their collective whoops and guffaws drew the momentary attention of their Table and that of some of those around them. But they could not stop at this point, the damage had been done. Hermione could already tell that this would be one of the times she would remember fondly when reminiscing about her friendship with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.   
  
Eventually their barely-contained hysterics reached the ears of those seated at the High Table, most notably those of Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor Snape. While Dumbledore regarded them with an air of sentimentality and amusement, Snape's expression barely belied one of extreme confusion and disgusted shock. Indeed, one had never been able to merge two such differing emotions as successfully as he. He looked positively aghast with fury.  
  
"What *are* those little prats convulsing about?" His voice positively dripped with revulsion.   
  
"Oh, you know children," Dumbledore chuckled. "Could be just about anything."  
  
"Indeed," Snape muttered sullenly. As he watched Miss Granger and her two cohorts cut it up gleefully, he was struck by a feeling of intense loss as it sluiced through his being. He shuddered almost violently, and tried to cover up the sensation by rising from his seat and smoothly adjusting his robes.   
  
"Well," he pronounced to Albus. "I do believe that it is time to collect my charge, however reluctant she may be to depart her impulsive compatriots and their ill-conceived hysterics."  
  
"Hmm," the Headmaster intoned, turning from the children to regard Severus thoughtfully. "Severus, lad, may I ask why you insist on saying the simplest things in the most complicated manner?"  
  
Snape let out a surprised scoffing sound, nearly tripping over his robes at the unexpected jibe from Albus. Crossing his arms over his chest defensively and raising to his full height, he eyed Dumbledore spitefully before swiftly pivoting on his heel and striding purposefully down the steps of the High Table and toward that of Gryffindor.   
  
His robes swept about him ominously as he came to an abrupt stop behind Potter and Weasley. The two boys, evidently blithely unaware of his presence, continued to giggle insipidly to each other as they cracked boyishly tame lewd jokes.   
  
Hermione was the first to see Snape, as she was sitting so she faced his direction. Her laughter having begun to calm down long before the boys', a half-hearted chuckle died in her throat the moment the Professor came into view. She gulped audibly, and looked up at Snape with wide eyes that barely contained her fear.   
  
He smiled, perversely satisfied by her discomfort.  
  
Potter and Weasley seemed to finally realize that their friend was no longer chortling inanely with them, and, upon following her timid gaze, turned to see Snape glaring down at them. Their laughter ceased immediately. Snape's lip quirked in a sneer before he spoke.   
  
"As pitiable as it is for me to break up this happy little interlude of yours, I'm afraid I must collect Miss Granger for her detention," he said silkily, fixing Hermione with a spurious smile.   
  
She positively withered under his gaze, but hurried to get her things together. Her mostly-full plate disappeared as she rose from her seat and hastened to her Professor's side. He looked down at her indignantly until she lowered her head, and then promptly swivelled to stride gracefully through the Great Hall. He did not slow his gait, though he knew she was struggling to keep up with him, the rapid tapping of her shoes and audible rustling of her robes alerting him to the fact. He at last halted when they arrived at the massive doors to the Hall and elegantly stretched out a foreboding, black-clad arm, allowing her to precede him out of the room.  
  
Harry and Ron watched her with sorrowful expressions as she disappeared from their sight with an expansive sweeping of Professor Snape's seemingly endless, black robes. 


	6. A Sentence Served

Beneath the Surface  
  
  
  
Chapter the fifthe: A Sentence Served  
  
  
  
They had been walking past and through the endless hallways of Hogwarts castle for quite some time now, Hermione fighting desperately to keep up with her Professor, who couldn't be bothered to slow his considerable gait for her much smaller legs.   
  
As if she hadn't felt dwarfed enough by the sheer size of the walls surrounding them, Professor Snape's imposing height and billowing black robes made her feel even more minuscule.   
  
'I wonder where he's taking me....This isn't the way to Potions,' Hermione mused nervously.   
  
Instead of going through the Transfigurations Wing that started to the left of the Great Hall as the students had been shown, Snape had gone through the Divinations and Astronomy Wing, which bordered the Hall on the right.   
  
He hadn't bothered to inform his cowering student that he had opted to take the teacher's route instead.   
  
And after all, Miss Granger did squirm so delightfully when trying not to question authority, he thought malevolently.  
  
'It's the fiery ones who are the most satisfying to see broken.' But he immediately pushed that thought from his mind, as it brought with it darker images that should not be connected with a student.   
  
He had not turned once to see if his student still followed him, for the tiny tip-tapping of her mary janes that echoed between his sure, strong footsteps ensured that she was right behind him.   
  
Severus was glad that the girl could not see his face, because he couldn't seem to fully quell the small smile that stretched his lips at the sound of the eager little tapping of her feet as she fought to stay behind him. It amused him that she was having such trouble keeping up, because he was walking at a more relaxed pace than usual.  
  
He would never say so aloud, but every time he walked through the magnificent halls and resplendent rooms of this castle, he was filled with a peaceful sense of awe and admiration that urged him not to pass it by without appreciating its ethereal beauty.   
  
He felt it was a privilege to be allowed into these hallowed halls; one he wasn't so sure he deserved.  
  
He wasn't aware that Miss Granger was also having similar thoughts. One of her very favorite books (of which there were many) was 'Hogwarts: A History', primarily because it was all about the castle she had grown to love so very much, containing facts on its every aspect.   
  
She looked around at the intricate staircases and animated portraits with reverence, trying very hard not to just stop in place and take it all in fully, lest she lag behind and incur Snape's anger.   
  
Hermione followed her Professor as he took a sudden left down a cold, stone stairway that grew increasingly dark as they neared the lowest level of the school until the light disappeared entirely at its center. She was unfamiliar with this route, and put a hand against the damp stone wall, feeling her way along in the dark.   
  
Snape seemed to know his way by heart, not hesitating as he took the steps evenly. Hermione could feel the edge of his flowing cape brush roughly against her legs with each step he took, and took comfort in the thought that he was just in front of her, should she fall.   
  
At last a faint glow dimly lit the twisting staircase, signaling that they had almost reached its end. Hermione let out a small breath, not realizing that she'd held it in the first place. Now she knew where they were: in the seemingly unused corridor that faced the hallway they normally traveled through to get to Potions.   
  
Snape opened the first wooden door on the right and waited calmly by it for her to precede him into the room.  
  
'Well,' she thought dryly, 'at least he's been taught proper manners.'  
  
Surprised that her demanding Professor actually possessed these and was actually using them on her–a practice now reserved in the Muggle world only for those one respected–Hermione strode haughtily past him, her head held high.   
  
Snape rolled his eyes at her ridiculously childish behavior and followed her into the room, closing the door soundly behind him.   
  
Hermione took a moment to look around upon entering the room; she realized that they had entered through the door to the left of his desk in the Potions room. She had always wondered what that led to. She smiled to herself, satisfied at having discovered the answer to yet another of her neverending questions.   
  
"Miss Granger, please tell me you recognize this room after having been in it at least twice a week for four months," Snape intoned irritably.   
  
Hermione jumped at his voice. As had happened many times in his presence, the very intonation of his voice had kept her from fully comprehending his meaning. She raised her eyebrows at him timidly, her face blank. He sighed, pinching his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose.   
  
"This is merely your Potions classroom, there is no need to gape at it as if you've never been here before. Now don't dawdle, child, you're wasting my time," he said to her sharply.   
  
Hermione ducked her head shamefully, and then immediately raised it to face him again. She did not want him to think her a silly, impetuous child, and at the same time she resented him for making her feel such in his presence.   
  
Snape sighed again.   
  
'With Gryffindors, an *internal* battle is never thus.'  
  
He strode purposefully to an expanse of bare wall to the right of his teaching desk and removed his wand from his voluminous sleeve. After flicking it in a single expansive gesture, he whispered a password so softly that it sounded like sibilant hissing. The sound reminded Hermione of what she'd read about parseltongue.   
  
As soon as he'd finished speaking, the stone wall seemed to evaporate as the narrow passageway to a series of rooms came into view. Hermione's eyes widened, her mouth partially opening in awe of what she'd just seen.   
  
'A secret room!' she deduced excitedly. Her eyes sparkled in delight as she stepped closer to it.  
  
He was about to enter when he stopped abruptly and pivoted to face her, holding up an index finger warningly.  
  
"Stay here," he instructed firmly. "I need to retrieve something from my office." Then he disappeared into the room directly to the left of the passageway, the hem of his black robe curling around the frame of the entrance.   
  
Her face fell and she sighed, disappointed that he didn't trust her to go into his laboratory; for she knew that's what lay beyond the threshold. What she wouldn't give to see what a true Master keeps in his stores! But alas, it was evidently not to be. Yet. She lifted her head, determination setting her jaw.   
  
'I don't know exactly how I'll do it, but I WILL gain his trust. And with it, access to his stores.'  
  
Though she did not venture closer to the entranceway--as she had been expressly told not to--she craned her neck painfully in an attempt to see what her Professor was doing. No matter which way she turned, nothing of import could be seen; but she could hear the opening and closing of drawers and the rustling of parchments interspersed with the occasional clink of glass.   
  
After several moments more of this, Professor Snape swept back into the room so unexpectedly that she had to snap her head back into its normal position immediately. She felt the pangs of a cramp beginning, and she winced inwardly.   
  
Snape only raised his eyebrows suspiciously at her, though he knew that she had not moved from her spot.  
  
'Unusually deferent little thing. Her eagerness is almost frightening.'  
  
He cleared his throat and went smoothly to his desk, taking his seat behind it. He had brought a substantial stack of papers contained rather untidily in an old leather binder that had the words 'First Years' etched in it in faded silvery script back with him, and set it in the center of his disorganized desk before looking up to study Hermione intently. As always, she faltered under his gaze, but refused to look away.  
  
"Well, Miss Granger, what shall I do with you?" he asked dryly, not really expecting a response.  
  
"S-sir?" she asked cautiously.   
  
He again raised one of those elegant black eyebrows at her. Then he tilted his head to the side, lifting a finger to his thin, aristocratic mouth and knitted his brows as if he were deeply considering his own question. A moment later he turned back to Hermione and smiled sinisterly at her.  
  
"I know." The smile immediately slid from his lips, leaving his expression openly unfriendly. "You fancy yourself to be a relatively intelligent person, do you not?"  
  
Hermione hadn't the slightest idea what to say to this, so she continued to stare at him silently.  
  
"Yes, I believe you do." He pushed the newly acquired leather binder forward on his desk deliberately. "Then grade these essays for me."  
  
Hermione's eyes widened slowly as she took in the sheer volume of the bundle.   
  
"Here's the syllabus you're to use to grade them." He placed the sheet on top of the binder and folded his arms on his desk, waiting for her to take it. When she did not, he fixed her with a sharp glare.   
  
"Miss Granger, I suggest you get started, lest you are unable to finish them all before your detention is over and I will have to assign you another so you can," he informed her coldly.  
  
Her eyes shot up from the binder to meet his, outrage sparkling in them clearly. It seemed she was about to protest, but the glint in Snape's eyes convinced her to clamp her mouth shut and bite her tongue.   
  
She went to his desk and took the binder without looking at him, struggling to hold up the heavy thing as she brought it to the desk she usually occupied in his class.   
  
He regarded her with veiled amusement as she immediately set about her cumbersome task. She was an admirable little thing, in her own way, he mused.   
  
'If one could call blind obedience an admirable trait.'  
  
The warmth seeped out of his eyes, leaving them flinty and cold once more as he lowered them. He took another binder from a pile on the left side of his desk and opened it, soon becoming lost himself in the dreary monotony of grading his third years' essays on the properties of Veritaserum.   
  
  
  
~*~  
  
'I should've known that he would make me grade his papers instead of letting me help with an experiment,' she grumbled mentally. An hour had passed since he'd given her the work, and they had both been toiling in complete silence for its entirety.   
  
Hermione flicked her eyes to the First Year binder on the left side of her desk, calculating approximately how many more tests she'd have to grade before she was finished.   
  
She was pleased to note that only twenty or so were left, and she smiled to herself before taking another paper from the remaining pile. She had been working so diligently and with such efficience that she hadn't realized how many she'd completed.   
  
Nor had she realized how her quill hand was aching from having marked a couple hundred essays. She carefully placed her quill beside the stack of papers she had yet to complete and stretched out her fingers gratefully.   
  
She reclined into her wooden chair to rest her back, which was also throbbing from being bent over her work for over an hour. She brought her watch to her eyes automatically, noting that it was now 7:55 in the evening.  
  
Snape's detentions, she'd learnt from her friends, more often than not went on until curfew, which, for the First Years, was nine p.m. She mentally determined how much time it would take her to finish the remaining essays, and sighed when she realized that she'd be finished with plenty of time to spare until curfew.   
  
Once again her eyes seemed to shift magnetically to Snape, but this time he was not looking back at her. She tilted her head as she contemplated him.  
  
Professor Snape was bent practically double over his desk in the manner he had when she'd reported to him after class that afternoon. His eyebrows were knitted closely in intense concentration, but there were no worry lines on his smooth forehead.   
  
His almond shaped eyes were dark as they glittered intently, darting back and forth as he instantly scanned the essays; one nostril twitched, his lip rising along with it as he dipped his quill in preparation to scrawl notes atop the essay. They would be uncommonly scathing, Hermione thought with a scowl.   
  
Approximately every minute–and she'd timed him, for lack of anything better to do rather than in actual curiosity, she'd told herself–he would flick a finished paper aside and grab another one, marking it as swiftly as its predecessor.   
  
'My, but he's quick! It must be the experience,' Hermione justified mentally. Then she tilted her head to the side, her expression softening a little as she continued to observe him.   
  
'I wonder why he's so...dark. I can't think of any other word to describe him. Well, not without sounding impertinent.... I wish he'd let me help him with an experiment,' she again yearned wistfully.   
  
'Maybe then I could...befriend...no, I'm sure he'd never let me get *that* close. But perhaps I could at least become friendlier with him, and maybe I'd be able to find out something about him. I just HAVE to know why he chose to do nothing with his life besides teaching! I mean, not that it's not a wonderful thing to do, but someone like *him*, now HE could really do something great...'.  
  
Her line of thought trailed off as he stirred faintly, his eyebrows quivering slightly as his eyelashes fluttered. Her head tilted even further to the side, as it was wont to do the more intimate her thoughts became.  
  
'He has awfully long eyelashes. Unusual in a man, especially *Snape*.' Her head suddenly snapped forward, her eyes going wide (as *they* were wont to do the more surprised she became). How could she have thought such a fanciful, *personal* thing about SNAPE?!  
  
She didn't even bother to rationalize the unbidden thought, instead choosing to completely close her mind to it.   
  
She moved forward on her chair again, splaying her fingers once more before picking up the quill to start work on the twenty or so essays she had left to complete.   
  
~*~  
  
Snape himself had finished grading his essays about twenty minutes prior, as he was quite familiar with the process by this time. He could now evaluate a paper and scratch down a scathing criticism of the student's work in under a minute flat.   
  
He'd noted that the time was now 8:18p.m. He rolled his eyes heavenward, annoyed that he'd have to supervise Miss Granger until she was finished with her work, and who knew how long *that* would be?  
  
He had grown bored with the mundane task upon finishing his stack, and settled back in his chair to rest his hands and his mind before starting on the Fourth Years' work.   
  
Seeing as how Miss Granger was the only living and moving creature in his otherwise cold and still dungeons, he had taken to studying her as she worked obliviously at her desk.   
  
She was a singularly strange little thing, and he had seen many children pass through his classroom at Hogwarts over the years. He'd never known a child to work with such fervor, to be so eager to please him.   
  
Yes, he could tell that was her goal, though he couldn't fathom why. Perhaps she sought to gather information on one of Potter's 'enemies'; who could know?  
  
He realized with a frown that he must have been watching her for some time now, as he'd been noticing changes in her behavior and appearance.   
  
She was no longer the lively energetic little thing that she'd seemed upon her arrival at Hogwarts. As she settled into school life, she seemed to turn inward more and more as the months went by.   
  
It was as though something was constantly weighing on her mind and it revealed itself in her slumped shoulders and wide, frightened eyes that made her tiny face seem even smaller compared to them.   
  
Now there was a permanent purple smear that colored her eyelids and it put him in mind of someone who had gone so long without sleep that they were all the more hyper-aware for it.   
  
He knew what caused that particular vigilant gleam in her dark eyes because he had experienced the torment of haunted dreams, and subsequently sleepless nights, himself.   
  
He wondered what preyed so on this child's mind that would make her go without sleep and sustenance, seeming to shrink more and more into herself as the children around her continued to grow and thrive.   
  
His brow furrowed in a worried manner as he contemplated on the child.   
  
'Perhaps I can allow her to assist me in one or two of my more simple potions. Perhaps then I could ascertain what's troubling her so. Anyway, I've been in need of an assistant who is at least marginally intelligent.'  
  
Having made his decision, he allowed his gaze to rest on Miss Granger nonchalantly for several more seconds before reaching for the Fourth Years' binder.  
  
~*~  
  
Hermione's lips twitched in a smug? smile as she put the last essay on top of the pile. She sighed, wringing out her now cramped hand before rising to lug the binder to Snape's desk.   
  
"Professor?"   
  
Snape looked up as he heard his title softly spoken in a strained voice. It seemed Miss Granger had finally finished grading. He glanced to the clock above the teacher's entrance.  
  
'Well, she did finish quite a bit earlier than any of her peers. Several detentions earlier, as a matter of fact.'  
  
He returned his attention to Granger, who was now struggling not to drop the heavy binder. He immediately rose from his seat and took it from her, concealing his amusement at her small sigh of relief.   
  
"Thank you," she said to him. Snape frowned and looked down at her seriously.  
  
"Miss Granger, it seems that it would be pointless to keep you here for the remaining fifteen minutes until curfew. But I would ask one thing of you before you take your leave," he said sternly.  
  
She noticeably stiffened, looking up at him with questioning eyes that held a trace of fear. He continued.  
  
"Do you participate in any extra-curricular activities after the school day has commenced?"  
  
She was thoroughly confused by his question. "Uh, n-no, sir."  
  
"Good. Since you have so much free time on your hands...," he paused, wrinkling his nose in distaste. In truth, he felt awkward asking such a thing of anyone, let alone a student of his. When he continued, his words were sharp and hurried. "...Perhaps you could assist me in the making of some of my less complex potions once or twice a month or so."  
  
When she didn't reply, his eyes slid warily over to her, wondering if she was trying to think of a polite way to refuse him.  
  
He was surprised, to say the least, when he found her face to be positively aglow with astonishment, her eyes sparkling as they bored into his gratefully.   
  
Unused to such a response from one of his students–or anyone, for that matter–he looked away from her and shifted uncomfortably.   
  
"I--I--," Hermione stuttered, what he had asked of her slowly sinking in warmly. She couldn't believe her good fortune! Now she didn't have to dredge up the courage it would take to ask this of him; maybe he wasn't so heartless after all. "Thank you, Professor! I would be more than happy to help you whenever you want! I just can't believe that you trust me enough to ask--"   
  
"Very well, Miss Granger, that will do," Snape said brusquely, still refusing to meet her eyes. "If ever I am to prepare an elementary potion, I will inform you with the expectation that you will be available to assist me."  
  
Hermione nodded eagerly, so happy that she had been given the opportunity to see a Master at work that she continued to stare at him reverently. Snape paled to an even whiter shade than his usual pallor, which signified that he was blushing.   
  
(For some inexplicable reason, he had never been able to turn red, no matter how harshly the wind bit his cheeks in Winter or how heated his innards became when embarrassed.)  
  
His eyes began to dart around irritably, wondering why she was still here. Finally, he turned to her, his expression schooled into one of accustomed vehemence.  
  
"Miss Granger, I wasn't aware that you needed to be told explicitly when you are dismissed!" He fixed her with a menacing glare. "So get out before I rethink my decision to allow you to help me!"  
  
She started visibly, his warning sobering her immediately.  
  
"Y-yes, sir." She spun around and swiftly went to the student's door, not daring to leave through the closer teacher's entrance lest he think her insolent.  
  
Pulling open the door, she was leave when she suddenly turned and poked her head back into the classroom. Professor Snape was still watching the door, ensuring her departure.  
  
"And, g-good night, sir," she said shyly before immediately withdrawing her head and allowing the heavy wooden door to swing closed on its own.   
  
Snape stared absently in the direction of her departure for a moment, considering her actions and his decision. He frowned, causing a sharp line to appear between his eyebrows.   
  
'I hope I won't be forced regret this decision in the future....'   
  
He gave the door Miss Granger had gone through a pensive scowl before turning to reenter his private rooms, his ever ominous black robes undulating like great black bat wings behind him. 


	7. And The Humans Were Given The Gift Of Fi

Beneath the Surface  
  
  
  
Chapter the Sixthe: And The Humans Were Given Fire To Do With What They Would  
  
Hermione practically skipped back to her dorm, such was the force of her elation at the responsibility that Professor Snape had given her. Her steps were quick and tense as she rushed through the multitude of hallways, corridors, staircases, and finally the portrait hole. It was with much relief that she finally flung her overexcited little body down upon her bed.  
  
'I knew it would happen, but I'd no idea that it'd be this soon!' She could barely contain the flushed smile that spread her mouth as her mind raced with jubilation. 'I must've behaved quite well while I was grading those papers for him....Perhaps that's why he decided it; because he had been testing me. Or maybe my efforts to get on his good side have finally paid off! Oh, I don't care what the reason is, I'm just *so* happy!!'  
  
So happy, in fact, that she failed to prevent a giddy peal of laughter from escaping her lips. She quickly clamped her hand over her mouth and rose to kneel on her bed, peering around the room nervously. Once she had ascertained no one else was present, she settled back against her pillow and sighed in relief. Then she frowned as her mind calmed down from its euphoric stupor.  
  
This always happened to her if she ever made the mistake of being openly pleased with herself: the sudden, crashing depression of reality. She had forgotten the reason the fateful discussion with her Potions Professor occurred in the first place: she'd had detention. She had done something wrong....  
  
'...Oh, yes!'  
  
She had been late to class, an unforgivable offense. Here these people dedicated their lives to teaching them what they'd need to know to survive in this wonderful world, and she had disrespected one of them due to selfish laziness. She could not, *would* not abide by such behavior, and she knew that she'd have to pay for it somehow. She always had to pay for any pittance of happiness that happened to overshadow her thinking; *that* was reality.  
  
She signed again, this time in resignation.   
  
'Study,' her inner taskmaster commanded of her sharply. She obediently bent to pick up a textbook from her bag on the floor (this time she would not make the mistake of allowing them to lie around haphazardly) and heaved it into her lap. It didn't matter which subject it covered (this one happened to be on Arithmancy) so long as she studied it diligently until curfew. She bent her head and allowed her heavy hair to fall around her face, a curtain to shield her from the outside world and all of its many distractions.   
  
But try as she might, she could not stop the occasional triumphant reminder that she was now Snape's assistant from slithering sinfully across her mind, nor could she suppress the rush of excitement in her stomach and the tiny, self-satisfied smirk that came along with it.  
  
~*~  
  
The next morning Hermione rushed through her routine and was ready a full half an hour before classes were to begin. She impatiently waited for Harry and Ron in the Common Room between the girls' and boys' dorms, checking her watch several times a minute and shifting irritably. Although she wanted to just leave on her own and get to class early, the three friends had mutely decided that they would each always wait for the other two before and after every period.  
  
Finally, ten minutes before their first class (which would be Transfiguration) was to commence, the two boys' voices could be heard echoing jovially down the stairwell.  
  
'Finally!' Hermione rolled her eyes and strode to meet them in the doorway. Whatever they had been conversing about, they immediately clammed up when they caught sight of Hermione's fierce expression.  
  
"*There* you are! I was wondering when you'd bother to show up," she chastised them, crossing her arms across her chest.  
  
"Is something wrong?" Harry asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.   
  
"Not yet, but there will be if we're late to class. Now come on, then!" And she immediately turned to walk quickly to the portrait hole. The boys shared a bewildered look, shrugged and then hurried to catch up with her.   
  
"Hermione," Ron started as they were starting down the hallway. "What's all the rush about? We always leave for class around this time. Is something happening today?"  
  
Hermione sighed impatiently. "No, Ron. I just think that we should start making an effort to be on time for our classes after what happened yesterday."  
  
"Ugh." Ron wrinkled his nose at the unpleasant memory. "Well, I don't think it would've happened if we didn't have Potions that day."  
  
"Yeah," Harry agreed, his face contorted likewise in disgust. "I'll bet Snape was just *waiting* to catch us late."  
  
Hermione's brow furrowed in consternation. The three never agreed on just what to make of the caustic Professor. "Well, I know he can be a bit harsh," Hermione began unsurely. "But we *were* late, and we deserved to be disciplined for it."  
  
The boys rolled their eyes at her, choosing not to agree or disagree with her studious logic. Hermione answered them with a perfunctory scowl. Knowing they would never come to a consensus on this, she decided to change the subject.  
  
"So, how did your detentions go?" she asked.  
  
"Oh, *that*," Ron said derisively, then shrugged. "Not too bad, I suppose. Professor Mcgonagall just had me sit there quietly for an hour. Caught up on some sleep, anyway."   
  
He grinned lopsidedly at Harry, who returned the gesture, and Hermione rolled her eyes as she smiled at them.   
  
"How about you, Harry?" Ron asked. Harry's grin immediately morphed into a grimace.  
  
"Filch made me polish candlesticks for two hours. Wasn't as bad as I was afraid it would be, though. I've been through worse," he muttered. Ron and Hermione shared a sympathetic look for Harry. An awkward silence prevailed between the three for a moment, the one major difference between them having become glaringly obvious once again.   
  
Harry rarely alluded to his life before Hogwarts, but his friends knew how hard it had been for him. He seemed so happy at the school that they could hardly believe the things he'd been through, and perhaps he couldn't either. Perhaps he just didn't want to remember them so long as he was here. Hermione often wondered if all the painful things that happened to Harry before she met him would one day cause him to just break down emotionally. She knew that it was almost impossible for something of that nature not to happen, and she certainly wasn't looking forward to the day that it would.  
  
Finally, Harry cleared his throat and offered a forced laugh. "Well, I'm sure Hermione's detention was far worse than either of ours. What did Snape do to you?" They both looked at her expectantly, glad that the strange silence had dissipated. Hermione frowned.   
  
'Better for you, but worse for me.'  
  
"I know what you're both thinking, but it wasn't that bad. He just had me grade some essays."  
  
"'Just', she says," Ron protested dramatically, throwing up his hands. Harry laughed at his predisposition for theatrics.  
  
"He's right though, 'Mione," Harry said, more seriously. "It's hard enough to write *one* of those, let alone grade a hundred!"  
  
"I had a syllabus to use, it really wasn't that difficult," Hermione huffed. She was starting to get flustered by this conversation. She knew where it was going.  
  
"A what?" Ron asked, his face a scrunched mask of confusion. Hermione sighed in aggravation.  
  
"Never mind." She lowered her head, afraid of the expressions her face could betray to them. "I just think you're both wrong about him. I don't think he could do a thing like that."  
  
'At least I hope he wouldn't...'  
  
Harry and Ron knew immediately what she was referring to. It was the suspicion they had been toying with for a month or so now that Professor Snape was out to get the Sorcerer's Stone.   
  
"I'm sorry, Hermione, but I don't see how you *couldn't* think it," Harry stated. Ron nodded his agreement.  
  
"It's no secret that I don't like him, but even if I did, I'd *have* to admit that certain things he does are right suspicious!" Ron insisted to Hermione.  
  
"Alright, alright, calm down. We don't want anyone to know what we're talking about," Hermione warned them, glancing furtively around them. The boys did likewise, wincing at the possibility of having been overheard by the man in question, himself. Thankfully, all was well and clear.   
  
"What I mean to say..." Hermione continued in a pontificating tone. "...Is that appearances can be deceiving, and often one will act a certain way so that people will not discover that they are actually the complete opposite. Anyway, everyone knows that it's always the person who seems the least likely to commit a crime who did it!"  
  
Harry and Ron both stared at her doubtfully. Then Ron's eyes widened, his mouth opening slowly in preparation to voice his apparent mental realization.  
  
"I'll bet he hypnotized you or something in that detention last night!" Ron blurted. Now Hermione and Harry stared at him with twin skeptical expressions.   
  
"You know, changed your thoughts about him or something. You know he's capable of it," Ron tried to explain. Then his face took on a pensive expression. "But then again, you've been fighting with us about this for some time now....I'll bet he's been working on you in secret for longer than any of us knew!"  
  
Harry could barely contain his laughter at the silly image Ron's accusation had conjured in his head, while Hermione seemed aghast at it.   
  
"No, Ron, he was not 'hypnotizing' me," she told him as if he were a little child. "I'm just not the type to immediately buy into such an obvious theory involving one of our Professors!! And I think that you two should--"  
  
But Hermione's tirade was rather suddenly cut off when the trio rounded a sharp corner and almost ran headlong into Professor Mcgonagall, who was standing beside the entrance to the Transfigurations classroom. The austere woman raised her eyebrows as she fixed the three with a dry, questioning gaze. Her scrutiny had almost the same effect on students as that of the formidable Professor Snape, but since she was the childrens' Head of House, they feared her marginally less than the Potions Master.   
  
The trio immediately straightened before their teacher, their discussion abandoned as they made an effort to stand to attention. Mcgonagall was faced with three sincerely penitent expressions.  
  
"Pardon us, Professor," Hermione apologized quickly. "We were rushing to get to class, and we should've been watching where we were going." Harry and Ron nodded eagerly.   
  
Professor Mcgonagall just stopped herself from smiling at these students whose adventuresome camaraderie never ceased to endear them to her. She was especially fond of the little girl, whose fierce intelligence reminded her of herself at that age, but whose strict adherence to the rules was a trait she hadn't possessed. She didn't understand why the girl pushed herself so when she was already so gifted academically. The child put her in mind of a needy kitten who hungered for affection but lacked the communication skills to ask for it.  
  
"I understand, Miss Granger," she replied crisply, but a wry smile hinted at the corners of her lips and her eyes sparkled down on the child. "You three are just on time, but I suggest you go and take your seats now before that changes."  
  
Amid a chorus of 'Yes, Professor', the three children readily scrambled into the classroom to find their seats. Professor Mcgonagall allowed herself a small, indulgent smile before striding into her classroom to begin the lesson.  
  
~*~  
  
It was that very Friday that Hermione had received her first summons to begin her duties as Professor Snape's assistant. As her plate had appeared before her that morning at breakfast, she was surprised to discover a small, unaddressed envelope placed in its center had materialized along with it. At first she just stared at it blankly, blinking the sleep (or lack thereof) out of her eyes.   
  
'Daft girl,' someone thought darkly across the Hall.   
  
'Perhaps a house elf left it here by mistake,' Hermione thought to herself. She turned it around to see if an address or at least a name had been written on the other side, but instead found a strange, emerald seal holding the letter closed. It had two snakes that were shaped like S's intertwined delicately, one slightly higher than the other. Hermione's eyes widened and a surge of excitement swept through her torso.   
  
'Could it be?'  
  
She used her knife to open the seal as quickly as she could without damaging it (she'd kept every letter she'd received from Hogwarts largely because she was so entranced with their use of the seals, and each person had a different one. She truly had never expected to receive one from Professor Snape, for any reason) and found a small note on which was scrawled a short message in Professor Snape's spidery script. It read:  
  
Miss Granger,  
  
I trust you remember the agreement we came to at your last detention. I sincerely hope so, for I will be needing your assistance in the making of a ***pain relieving potion*** tonight. We have gone over this in class, so I will expect you to have gone over your notes carefully before we meet, which will be at seven o'clock this evening. See that you are not even a fraction of a second late.  
  
~S. Snape  
  
Despite the letter's undeniably harsh tone, its contents thrilled Hermione to no end, and her face positively lit right up with excitement. The dark someone watching her across the Hall couldn't help but be amused by the sight of her often serious little face so happy, and allowed himself a small, private grimace, his dark eyes softening as they continued to scrutinize her.   
  
But Professor Snape swiftly averted his gaze and turned his head as the girl shifted to look in his direction, her delighted eyes seeking out his place at the High Table.   
  
Hermione caught the tail end of Snape's sudden movement, seeing him concentrating on some unknown point far to the end of the Hall, his hair swishing around his head before falling carelessly about his face. Hermione's breath literally caught in her throat, the gaiety dissipating from her features to be replaced by wide-eyed wonder as she openly stared at her Professor objectively for the first time since she'd set eyes on him four months ago.  
  
For the first time--but gods knew it would not be the last–young Hermione considered her Professor as a viable man.  
  
True, he did have a rather large nose, but it somehow suited him and managed to look quite aristocratic; especially in the way he would look down on people from it. That was another thing that she found...appealing about him: his considerable height. His savage intelligence and unmerciful cruelty made her feel so very inconsequential and small already, and his lofty height only added physically to that feeling.  
  
And the way his bleak black eyes would just bore holes into her confidence, made her feel absolutely powerless and vulnerable to whatever he would utter in that silky, dark voice. That was really what did it. That. Voice. The long, unkempt black hair, dangerous aura and mysterious ways would all amount to nothing without that sinfully solemn voice.  
  
'But why would all that make him...somewhat attractive to me?' She mentally balked at the implications of that sentence, and was rather horrified that she'd actually thought it in the first place. She slowly lowered her head as a hot fire waved through her entire body, and she realized what had happened. Realized that she could not simply make such feelings for her Professor vanish from her mind with a wish and a prayer.   
  
It had only just begun, but here had been planted the seeds that, though they had yet to fully thrive, would one day become so rooted to Hermione's brain that they would be impossible to totally dig out.  
  
"Hermione?" Ron suddenly asked, his voice sounding concerned. She immediately raised her head to face him, still a bit shaken but more than willing to take her mind from this decidedly sordid business.  
  
"Yes?" Her voice was laden with a forced cheerfulness that caused Harry and Ron to exchange worried looks.  
  
"Is it...bad?" Harry asked her gently, his expression one of utmost seriousness and compassion. Hermione realized they were referring to her unexpected letter, and laughed once loudly in relief.  
  
"Oh, no, guys, it's nothing like that!" she assured them mirthfully. "It's just a summons from Professor Snape for tonight."  
  
Hermione realized that she'd forgotten to tell her two friends about her new position as Snape's sometime assistant when their eyes widened and they fixed her with incredulous, gaping stares.   
  
"Summons?" Harry asked dubiously.  
  
"For 'tonight'?" Ron continued for him. Hermione's own eyes widened as she took in their meaning and began to shake her head wildly.  
  
"No! No, no, no, no. NO," she protested furiously, holding out her hands as if to shield herself from their thoughts. "I'd forgotten to tell you. During my detention Professor Snape asked if I wanted to help him make certain potions from time to time after classes, and I said yes. He told me he'd send me a summons if he needed my help."  
  
Although this explanation considerably relaxed the boys, Harry and Ron settled once again into disgust mode at the very mention of Snape's name.   
  
"You actually said yes?!" Ron asked her, appalled at the very notion.  
  
"Well, yeah," Hermione answered uncertainly. "I mean, it's really quite an honor! He is a Master, after all. That matters to me more than his...unpleasantness."  
  
"That's an understatement," Harry muttered darkly. Ron nodded in agreement. Hermione once again rolled her eyes at their perpetual immaturity.   
  
"Well, now you know, so don't look at me like *that* next time I get one of these," Hermione said tersely, waving the summons.   
  
It suddenly dawned on her that Harry and Ron would probably always feel this way about Professor Snape, no matter what he did or would do. Hermione sighed softly as she knew she would never feel the same way about him again, and the thought of having to listen to her two friends constantly undermine the man for the rest of her years here–let alone her natural *life*–was a very dampening prospect.   
  
As the three friends finally rose to exit the Great Hall, Hermione remembered that she had forgotten to eat breakfast. Again.   
  
~*~  
  
Evening crept up on Hermione furtively and far too fast. She gulped fearfully as the time read six forty-five in the evening on her wristwatch. Time to go to the dungeons.   
  
She could barely keep herself from shaking as she made her way down into the depths of the ancient school. She hugged the wall as she went, keeping to the shadows that dusk had thrown about the corridors. She had been so excited about assisting Professor Snape that morning, and now she dreaded seeing him.   
  
'Was* that* why I wanted to impress him the whole time?' She wondered miserably. 'Just so he'd...notice me?'  
  
She squeezed her eyes shut, holding in the tears that prickled beneath her eyelids. She had thought she was beyond such typically juvenile sentiments, and her heart ached both for the shame of thinking of her Professor in an inappropriately fanciful way and the even more shameful desire to have him reciprocate her feelings.  
  
'As if he would,' her mind scoffed cruelly. 'What would someone like him possibly want with a ridiculous little child like *you*?'   
  
She had never felt so emotionally torn and confused in her life, and that feeling combined with her lack of nutrition and rest made her feel very empty inside.   
  
She arrived at the entrance to Potions at exactly 6:59p.m., not one moment too late but not early enough to irritate her exacting Professor. She inhaled a deep breath of courage and rose her small fist to rap on the door.  
  
Severus Snape had been totally absorbed in the preparations for the ***pain relieving*** potion when he was rather rudely aroused by the soft yet eager tapping on the door. He was about to hurl it open and do all he could to discourage the uninvited guest from entering–or ever even entertaining the notion of visiting him again–when he remembered that he'd summoned Miss Granger that morning to assist him with the potion tonight.   
  
He sighed tiredly, once again rethinking his judgment in enlisting her help at all, and mentally prepared to be in the presence of another human being for the next hour or so.   
  
"Enter," he pronounced imperiously, brooking no argument but offering no assistance.   
  
Hermione shivered behind the door as she heard the order. She summoned up every ounce of strength she had, determined not to show her weakness to him, and opened the door.   
  
The classroom seemed much more spacious and barren than when filled with the many bodies and belongings of the students. Professor Snape, being the only occupant of the room, seemed to fill it totally with his dark, commanding presence as he stood over an enormous, steaming cauldron that had been placed before his desk.   
  
Hermione felt very small as she went over to him, but she tried hard to appear composed and businesslike, which was rather hard to do under his penetrating and appraising stare.  
  
"Miss Granger," he greeted her frostily. She gulped.  
  
"G-good evening, Professor," she managed to squeak out in return. He raised his eyebrows at her, wondering what had happened to the exuberant child who'd thanked him so effusively just days ago? Her face was absolutely devoid of all color; it put him in mind of the many Muggleborn First Years he'd witness nearly faint the first time they'd seen one of the school ghosts.   
  
'Oh, did he have to do the eyebrow thing at me?!' Hermione lamented mentally. 'Ok, pull yourself together, Hermione. Just do what he says and then go back to your room straight away. It'll be as simple as that.' She sighed and straightened her posture, pulling herself together.   
  
Professor Snape's eyebrow rose higher at the child's obvious display of mental anguish.   
  
'What on Earth is the matter with her? Can't the child keep anything to herself?! Typical Gryffindor,' he mentally sneered.  
  
Snape cleared his throat, smirking inside as the sudden sound started Hermione, and motioned with a graceful, sweeping hand to the ingredients he had set out to the right of the cauldron on the long table.   
  
"Here, Miss Granger," he announced clearly in the austere tone he used when teaching. "Are all of the ingredients and tools we will need to make the ***pain relieving*** potion."  
  
He paused to look down into her eyes very seriously, making sure that she was paying close attention to his words. He saw that her wide eyes beheld rapt attention, and savored in it briefly as would a cat lying in a sunbeam. Then he took a breath, turned his head back to the table, and continued.  
  
"I have set them all out in the order they are to be added to the cauldron, both so there would be no confusion on your part as to what goes in when, and to absolutely avoid the rather harrowing possibility of you going into my personal stores." His tone as he said these things was very dry, yet still managed to be quite mocking and derisive.  
  
Hermione bristled in indignation, her fear of him melting into her subconscious as she felt the uniquely painful sting of his well-aimed insults.  
  
'I should have known that he would do his best to take away from this experience,' she inwardly fumed. 'Perhaps this is yet another test. Well, I'll show him that I can pass it with ease!'  
  
She nodded crisply in acknowledgment of his words, determined not to let his biting little barbs get to her. He smirked at her profile, so rigid with fury ill-concealed.   
  
"Well, Miss Granger," he said almost indulgently. "Shall we begin?"  
  
"Of course, Professor," she replied coldly, refusing to look at him.  
  
'The little thing doesn't appear so timid when she's angry. Whatever one may say to the detriment of Gryffindors, they most definitely run the gamut of emotions in a most entertaining fashion.'  
  
Snape immediately realized (or rather, drew, from the many lectures of Albus Dumbledore on the subject of decency and compassion towards your fellow human being that he had been subjected to upon his return to Hogwarts) that he was playing a mental cat-and-mouse game with Miss Granger's emotions, and, though it highly appealed to his darker senses, it should be stopped immediately in the name of good will to humankind and his deliverance from the clutches of evil incarnate. He mentally let loose a long-suffering sigh.  
  
'Why does being good have to be so damned difficult!?!'   
  
Although he knew how juvenile that sounded, he chose not to bother retracting it from his thoughts in favor of a more intellectual sentiment. The day had just been too demanding on what remnants of his conscience he could salvage.  
  
Nevertheless, Snape resolved not to provoke or offend Miss Granger for the remainder of the evening, no matter how badly she asked for it (for, whether she knew it or not, she certainly did in his opinion).  
  
The next hour was spent in utter silence, save for the various sounds of chopping, dicing, powdering and the occasional splash of something being tossed into the cauldron. Snape had long taken comfort in the inorganic clamor, often losing himself in the inert cacophony in the most pleasant, numbing way. It was the only nonchemical drug that he found solace in: his potions.  
  
But he soon discovered that he could not focus solely on his beloved potions tonight, for he found himself constantly on edge, awaiting the initial 'Professor?' that would begin Miss Granger's endless tirade of questions. But, strangely, she was completely silent.   
  
In fact, she hadn't said a single word since they had begun the potion. She kept her eyes only on the work before her, her unruly curtain of hair obscuring her face from view, making it impossible for Snape to read her.  
  
It aggravated him to no end that this sliver of a child had managed to totally unnerve him–*him!* A master of deception–to the point of distraction just by behaving in a manner that was completely contrary to what he was accustomed to from her. For Merlin's sake, it was a common trick of the trade, and here he was desperately trying to comprehend this child's reason for doing it! Infuriating!!!  
  
Hermione, for her part, had kept her silence simply because her mother had always told her to just ignore anyone who was teasing her, and that fighting with them only encouraged their behavior.   
  
But she had also been taking this time to deeply consider her strange new feelings for Professor Snape. She had somehow convinced herself that he was only cruel to people because they failed to understand him, and she had read enough about psychology (a largely Muggle practice that she had taken great interest in) to know that people who had been badly hurt by others taught themselves to push everyone away in order to avoid even the tiniest possibility of being hurt again.   
  
She knew she was just a little child compared to him, but she had hoped, however subconsciously, that she would be able to break down her cold Professor's emotional barriers just by attempting to show him some kindness, to 'be nice' to him. She began to realize that the thought in itself had been childish; it would take years to get through to this man! If such a feat was even possible at all. Her heart sunk in defeat.  
  
'Oh, I have far too much schoolwork to have time for this sort of thing!'  
  
Yes, the realization of what she would be up against just to have a pleasant conversation with the man was definitely dampening her adolescent fervor for him.  
  
With a silent sigh, she moved to toss an ingredient she'd just painstakingly sliced into the cauldron (this one had to be dropped in bit by bit, one piece every couple of seconds). As she performed the simple, repetitious task, her eyes wandered towards her Professor in idle curiosity.   
  
And her doubts about him immediately scattered from her mind, as a dandelion's flower would when subjected to a strong gale of wind. She thought of nothing as she regarded him, only felt wistful pangs pull at her heart in varying degrees of pain as the reluctant desire to connect with him intensified once again.   
  
The spidery fingers of one of his long, refined hands clutched a stoppered vial that contained a substance of a very dark yet vibrant red color a foot or so from his face. His other arm–the one facing her direction–was loosely wrapped around his midsection, its fingers gripping his side. He was so thin that they covered the width of it with room to spare. His posture was slightly stooped, his weight shifted to one leg, the foot of the other mutely tapping the ground slowly and off rhythm.  
  
His features were twisted into an intensely morose frown, eyebrows deeply hooded over flinty cross eyes, his nose creased in a sneer over pursed lips. But although this vexation was directed at the small bottle in his hand it was as if his mind didn't even register it, that he was only holding the vial before his eyes to mislead one into thinking that it was the object of his concentration.   
  
Hermione had seen him with a scowl on his face many times, but she'd never seen him with *this* expression before. For him it was so...'human', was the only word that readily came to Hermione's mind. He seemed almost as if he were...pouting...about something. The glower put her in mind of a child who desperately wanted to understand something that was just beyond their grasp, and it frustrated them to no end.  
  
She had only been staring at him for a moment, but in it she saw all of him. She was voracious for any and all information that she could visually gather on him, looking at him as though he were one of the many subjects that she wanted to know all about. She beheld him with a researcher's eye, sensitive to every detail.  
  
Suddenly, seeming to finally abandon his distressing train of thought, Snape released a disgusted snort that Hermione wouldn't have heard had she not been watching him and practically slammed the vial onto the table, moving to ready and violently chop up some aloe plant leaves. Then he stopped without warning and pivoted his head to glare at Hermione directly in the eyes.   
  
"What are you looking at, Granger?!" he practically shouted at her, causing her to nearly jump out of her skin.   
  
Absolutely in shock, she continued to stare at him, unable to move in her terror. He seemed to become even more incensed at this, and said terror increased twofold as he strode towards her deliberately and bent over so that they met eye to eye. He was far too close for comfort.   
  
"Miss Granger." His voice was so low it was barely audible, but its deadly tone was more frightening than straight out yelling ever could be. She shuddered, furiously blinking her eyes at his close proximity. "If you do not pay exceedingly close attention to what you are doing, this potion will be ruined and I will have to stay up late making another. I suggest you develop some focus, and *quickly*, or I will be forced to get another assistant. Is that perfectly clear?"  
  
"*gulp*...Y-y-yes, s-sir," Hermione whispered, trying with all her might to stop her body from shaking.   
  
"Good," he said firmly in his normal tone of voice. He hesitantly tore his eyes from hers and rose to stand.  
  
As he went back to his side of the cauldron, he felt more than a little guilty at his...well, admittedly severe lapse in civility. He always had taken his anger out on the one who caused it, inadvertently or not. This case being the latter, he knew the girl deserved some sort of apology. But how to say it without appearing foolish?  
  
A half an hour passed with complete silence reigning over them once again, but this time it was with great discomfort. Finally, the last ingredient had been added and the potion left to steep for the night. Hermione hastily got her things together and practically darted for the exit. Snape pressed his eyelids together, readying himself for what he knew would have to come.  
  
Before the girl could open the door, Snape moved to stop her.  
  
"Miss Granger," he called to her. Hermione winced, wondering what kind of treatment she would have to endure next from him. But her Professor only sighed defeatedly, surprising her enough to make her turn hesitantly to face him.   
  
"Miss Granger, I must...beg you to forgive my earlier outburst," he said almost penitently, unable to look her in the face. "It's...been rather a difficult day, and I often make the mistake of forcing my...displeasure on others who did not cause it. So I ask you again to...please forgive me."  
  
Hermione could only stare at him in disbelief for a moment. When he frowned and looked up at her, obviously wondering what was taking her so long to answer, she shook herself and nodded shyly.   
  
"Of c-course I forgive you, Professor," she answered bashfully, now not able to look him in the face. "I often have those days myself....I understand what people are like, and I...what I mean to say is, I know how you--"  
  
"Thank you, Miss Granger," Snape stopped her quickly from going on, his face white as a sheet from embarrassment. Why did the child always have to put her foot in her mouth? "I understand. I shall ask for your help the next time it is needed."  
  
Hermione knew that he was trying to create a clean slate between them, and she smiled widely at him in gratification.   
  
"Oh, thank you, Professor! You have no idea how happy I--"   
  
"Very well, then. Good night, Miss Granger," he told her pointedly. She ducked her head self-consciously, knowing a dismissal when she heard one, but the small smile continued to tremble on her lips.  
  
"Good night, Professor," she said back to him softly. Then she promptly turned to exit the dungeons, nearly hitting her head on the door in her haste. Snape again watched as the door swung closed, smirking at the back of the child whom, he had discovered in the past two hours or so, had proved herself to be even stranger than he'd initially suspected.   
  
Hermione ambled slowly back to her rooms, taking the time to admire the castle openly as she went. It felt as though a cumbersome load had been lifted from her shoulders, so light and happy was her spirit that it practically flew right out of the little body it was housed in. She'd finally resolved her feelings for her notoriously brooding Professor, and she allowed herself to smile broadly at the ease in which she'd discovered the answer to the seemingly complex question.  
  
'What on Earth was I thinking?! The man's a complete and utter mess!!! I'd fail my O.W.L.S. for sure if I ever got involved with HIM!' 


	8. The Flame of Suspicion Extinguished

Beneath the Surface  
  
Chapter the Seventhe: The Flame of Suspicion Extinguished  
  
And so Hermione's First Year and Severus' fifteenth at Hogwarts passed by fairly quickly for the two. Every month or so, Severus would summon Hermione to assist him in the making of this or that rather elementary potion, and she would happily comply, even look forward to the time that would be spent in the icy dungeons with her even colder Professor.  
  
As they grew accustomed to being in each other's company and their relationship more comfortable–if still somewhat strained due to their polar personalities–Hermione slowly began to speak more candidly with her aloof Professor. The fact that he often left her incessant questions unanswered and offered her no personal information whatsoever did little to deter her from attempting to familiarize herself with the man.  
  
True, she still had an unusually strong desire to impress her Potions Master, but she now attributed the day-long infatuation she'd once harbored for him to a strange fluke due to lack of physical sustenance and her inborn willingness to please anyone whom she admired intellectually.   
  
Being able to call herself 'Snape's Junior Assistant' (if only to herself, for her station was hardly recognized; a professor could call on any of their more intelligent students to aid them after class, regularly or not) made her very proud, but she fervently wished that he would allow her to help with the more complex potions.   
  
As their acquaintanceship grew and she became more emboldened, Hermione got up the courage to ask her Professor if she could assist him with his more advanced potions. Snape had fixed her with a calculating frown, looming over her with his arms crossed guardedly for a seemingly infinite amount of time. Truly, time stopped for a person under the critical consideration of this man.  
  
Hermione lowered her head dejectedly, certain that he had thought her silly for asking this of him and was just waiting for her morale to be at its lowest before vocally refusing her earnest request.  
  
But, as she soon came to comprehend, Severus Snape did exactly the opposite of what he'd led her to believe he would.  
  
"Very well," he finally proclaimed, his low voice reverberating off of the stone walls. She was utterly shocked, and looked back at his face searchingly in an attempt to read his expression. It was as hooded and stern as ever. "But I will initiate you slowly, and at a pace I deem you worthy of."  
  
Hermione only smiled brightly at him, now knowing that he did not appreciate effusive gratitude. But she could not quell the slight shudder that ran up her spine at his choice of words.   
  
Though she was convinced she no longer felt anything of a romantic nature for her Professor, she still found herself attracted on occasion to his dark demeanor and provocative turn of phrase, and the painful pangs that pulled at her heart during such times would remind her of the state she'd been in only months ago.   
  
After all, recovery *was* a slow and arduous process....  
  
Snape had promptly squelched such fervid feelings by scolding her mercilessly for forgetting to add the diced toadstools at the appropriate time (she'd been seven seconds late). Though she thought him overly harsh and eager to criticize, she was quite thankful he possessed such a disagreeable temperament; it was that part of him that kept her ardor for the rest of him at bay.  
  
Severus, for his part, had become almost fond of the child as he got to know her over the months. He almost took comfort in the sound of her high little voice as she went on and on about inconsequential anecdotes and childish chatter, much in the way he found solace in the subtle commotion that accompanied his potion making.   
  
He had almost come to associate certain potions with the girl, and when he realized this he was more than a little perturbed by it. It was far too late (not to mention too *odd*) for him to begin feeling fatherly towards someone. Much less a student. Even *more* less a Gryffindor!  
  
But he simply hadn't the energy nor the heart to relinquish Granger from her duties of assisting him (which she took apparent joy in, for some baffling reason). And he *did* benefit from her help; he'd only two hands, after all.  
  
The girl's incessant prattle may be irritating, but she was a hard worker and more than mildly intelligent. Despite her faults, most likely the best assistant he would find for whose time he didn't have to pay.  
  
And so time went on, and so their tentative attachment to one another flourished.   
  
~*~  
  
While Hermione became more and more affixed to her surly Potions Master, Harry and Ron grew likewise distrustful of him. This created a burgeoning rift between them, one of which only Hermione was aware. She went reluctantly along with their suspicions because, in truth, she wasn't certain herself what Snape's intentions were.   
  
Although she had given him a small wealth of information about herself and her life in the hope that he might do likewise, he told her nothing of himself, and only scowled at her when she deigned to ask him anything even remotely personal.  
  
But, despite his rather unreasonably guarded manner, she continued to cling to the small yet fervent belief that her Professor was innately a good man with a bad attitude.   
  
She knew from experience that Harry and Ron would hear none of that kind of talk, and so completely omitted her dealings with Snape and her thoughts about him from their conversations. Hermione was most definitely not adept at hiding things from people, but, either because they did not notice or thought nothing of it, the two boys did not question her loyalty to them or seeming contempt for Snape.   
  
Little did she know that she would soon be forced to decide which side of the fence she chose to hedge.  
  
It was a brisk, wintry day when the majority of the school took to the Quidditch stands, preparing to watch young Harry Potter compete in his first ever Quidditch tournament in the unheard of position of Seeker for Gryffindor.   
  
Hermione and Ron sat as close to the front of the Gryffindor section as they could, both excited and frightened for their friend, but eager to cheer him on and show their support. It was to be the Gryffindors against the Slytherins, and gods knew Harry would need all the support he could get.   
  
Hermione quickly scanned the Slytherin section, and was surprised to see that Professor Snape had chosen to attend as well, and was sitting rather uncomfortably in the middle of his section. Though he was seated far from her, Hermione noticed that he seemed quite agitated, and was constantly darting his sharp black eyes this way and that, as if he were desperately searching for someone. Hermione frowned in confusion and followed his gaze, unconsciously aiding him in his mysterious search before Ron spoke and returned her attention to him and the competition at hand by jabbing her in the ribs with his elbow.  
  
"Isn't this exciting, Hermione?" His face was flushed from the chill atmosphere, but his smile was bright and his eyes sparkled in merriment. She could not help but to share in his infectious good cheer, and returned his smile with one of her own.  
  
"Oh, very. This is a real honor for Harry." Then her brow furrowed in concern. "But I can't help worrying about him. I mean, this is his first ever competition in a wizarding sport and he's the *seeker* at that!"  
  
"Yeah, I know what you mean," Ron's expression faltered for a moment, but then the carefree grin was quickly reinstated. "But don't fret about it. I've seen Harry practice, and he's really spectacular! I would know. Plus, he's the Boy Who Lived! Nothing's gonna happen to him."  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes playfully at his naive confidence, but in her heart she knew that Harry would be just fine. She would just try to sit back and enjoy the tournament (even though sports, wizarding or not, were not her cup of tea) like everyone else. Except for Snape, of course.   
  
With a start, Hermione remembered the urgency with which he'd surveyed the bleachers moments ago and swung her head around to find him again. But her line of vision was obstructed by the people in front of her who had stood up and begun to cheer. The tournament had begun.  
  
Hermione and Ron whooped extra loudly when they caught sight of Harry, and Snape and his unknown plight were forgotten to Hermione as she followed the match intensely, her eyes locked on her friend the entire way.   
  
She was lost in the thrill of the game (something she had entirely not expected to happen to her during any sport; perhaps it was just because the players in this sport could fly on broomsticks), and did not notice as a half an hour and more sped by, so concentrated was her attention on Harry, who was doing quite well for his first ever competition despite the strong efforts of the Slytherins.   
  
But suddenly and quite unexpectedly, Hermione's breath caught in her throat and she stifled a scream as Harry's broom went out of control and appeared to be trying to buck him off of it. The entire school watched with baited breath as The Boy Who Lived struggled to resettle himself on the broomstick but was shaken off once again, this time with such a force that he was nearly flung off completely, and just managed to clutch onto it with his two hands before falling to the ground far below him.   
  
Ron clutched Hermione's hand in fear as he sat rigidly far forward in his seat, not daring to say anything lest the breath used to speak it should disturb Harry's wavering sense of equilibrium. Though he was nearly cracking her bones, Hermione did not notice the pain as she desperately scanned her abundant mental files of what seemed to many to be extraneous knowledge in the hopes of uncovering some spell that could save Harry's life.   
  
'Wingardium Leviosa won't do a thing for him! Neither will Mobilicorpus...Oh, what should I do?' Hermione felt absolutely helpless in this most dire situation, and the raw, terrified sensation the feeling shook into her body was profoundly disturbing to her.  
  
Then, in a burst of recognition, she recalled the way Snape had been scanning the stands desperately, the look on his face telling of the agonizing uncertainty she was now experiencing. Her eyes shot over to his direction, raking the stands frantically until they landed on him.   
  
And she immediately froze, growing cold as the grave as the blood drained from her body. Her mind grew eerily calm as she zeroed in on Snape's person, then his face, focusing in closer until she saw only his mouth. His lips were barely moving, but Hermione could tell that he was muttering something very quickly, over and over. He did not blink as he stared unwaveringly at Harry; she could practically see the raw, dangerous power emanating from his body. And then she knew.   
  
Snape was casting a spell. On Harry.  
  
'How could he?...I thought he wasn't....'  
  
Ron felt her hand become lifeless in his and slowly turned to face her, almost afraid to take his eyes off of Harry but needing to know if Hermione was alright as well, because he knew something had just gone wrong with her. Her profile was ghostly white, her eyes were somehow vacant yet focused at the same time on something across from them, something in the Slytherin stands.   
  
"Hermione, what is it?...," he asked softly, trailing off as he followed her gaze. He instantly spotted Snape, so starkly did he stand out from all the others surrounding him. He seemed very tense and was sitting perfectly still, not moving a muscle nor blinking an eye.   
  
He barely seemed to be breathing, and if Ron hadn't known better, he might've taken him for a stone statue, a gargoyle. There was something very odd in the way he sat so still, Ron thought as he squinted at him; it seemed like he was...saying something. But none of the stand's other occupants was turned towards him as if they were conversing.   
  
'Why is Hermione so...disturbed by this? Why isn't she looking at Harry? Wait....Why is *Snape* looking at Harry? And in such a way that....,' Then, realization dawned within Ron's head like a fire, blazing red as the hair that covered it. His eyes were determined as he turned them on Hermione and shook her, forcing her to become alert to the situation.  
  
"Hermione! I see Snape too. You *have* to do something to help Harry!" he commanded her, his harsh tone failing to conceal the note of desperation that had crept into it during his last sentence. His russet eyes pleaded with her as they began to shine with tears. "Please, Hermione. If I could, I would, but you're the only one who can do it and you know it."  
  
Hermione fully understood that Ron's stilted speech was uttered in a form of desperate supplication to her; the only help he could offer to Harry, and Hermione knew it was the last thing he'd ever ask of her if she succeeded in saving him, so afraid was he for his dear friend.   
  
Hermione's mind was frozen in the proverbial winter of her discontent, so torn was she between the love of her Professor and the life of her best friend. But as Ron begged her with his eyes and Harry struggled to live, Hermione knew what her decision would have to be.   
  
She would rather die without ever having known romantic love than to turn her back on the blinding light that that boy had imbued in his young body. She would now and always choose the world over herself.  
  
Her body jolted once violently, as if she had been forcefully struck, and her limbs tingled as the blood rushed back to her veins in a sudden spurt of adrenaline. Her eyes were stony as she looked Ron in the eye and nodded once, firm and confident in the choice she had made.   
  
His face broke into a tearful smile as he pulled her to him for a tight hug, whispering his thanks in her ear before she swiftly withdrew and sprinted past the bleachers, jumping the short stairway that led to the bridge-like pathway between the House stands. The Slytherin stands were one section away from those of Gryffindor (she would have to go through Ravenclaw to get to it), and she sped through it and the ensuing pathway faster than she had ever run in her life. Such was her urgency that her feet seemed to barely touch the ground as she ran.  
  
As she came to the brief stairway that would lead her up to Slytherin, she immediately halted and did her best to keep her breaths even and soft (which was very difficult, as her heart felt about to burst from the exercise of a lifetime–*her* lifetime, at any rate– she'd just undertaken) and her footsteps silent as she crept up the stairs.   
  
Snape was seated exactly in the center row of the center set of bleachers (though she refused to look directly at him, she knew exactly where he was), and she knew that if she lunged at him or tried a spell then and there that he would immediately detect her, as would all the others seated around him, and know that she *knew* what he was up to (as painful as it was for her to face, herself).   
  
She sharpened her resolve by stealing one last glance at Harry, who was still miraculously holding tight to his broomstick, but now only with one hand. She stood her ground as a wave of nausea washed over her, gulped down her fear, and tried her best to take this one step at a time.   
  
To avoid being seen by him and the inevitable danger such an encounter would bring, she decided to drop down and crouch along the wooden row beneath the bleachers as silently as she could and sneak directly behind Snape's seat. Once she had gotten into position, it was only a matter of figuring out just *how* to stop him without him knowing anyone had done it.   
  
'....An accident!' Her mind exclaimed triumphantly. 'I'll make it seem like an accident....But how?'  
  
She peeked through the slats in the bleachers nervously, searching for Ron in the section across from her. Maybe he would signal something to her, for at the moment her mind was horribly blank. Though it was unlikely to expect this of Ron, her heart sunk as she caught sight of him sitting perfectly still, eyes fixed on Harry. She could just make him out by that shock of red hair that sparkled under the noonday sun like fire.  
  
'Like fire!!'   
  
When this was all over, Hermione resolved to tell Ron that he had, however inadvertently, came up with the plan that could–that *would*–save the life Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived!   
  
Unfortunately, the poor girl was so overwrought with conflicting, nameless emotions that she tripped over her own feet and fell backwards, bumping and displacing the balance of her Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Quirrell. Hermione froze in fear and looked to Professor Snape, terrified that he'd heard something and turn around to discover her.   
  
She almost laughed out loud when she saw the right corner of his mouth quirk upwards snidely (part of his profile was visible to her from where she cowered) at the sound of disgruntled stuttering and the rustling of clothing behind him. Of course, he made not a move to assist Quirrell, but it was obvious that he'd figured out the man had fallen—nevermind *how*. Even when plotting against him, Hermione could still count on Snape to be a heartless dastard.   
  
Remembering Harry's precarious situation, she steeled her nerves and did her best to keep her body from shaking as she knelt as close to the feet of her Professor as was possible without being seen by him. She got her wand out from an inner pocket of her robe, and held it out before her.   
  
She willed herself to be strong and squeezed her eyelids shut as she whispered very faintly yet with conviction the words 'enflamore'. Tiny flames instantly sprung from the tip of her glowing wand and affixed themselves to the hem of Snape's robes, crackling as they danced there.   
  
Hermione sank back on her haunches for a moment as relief enveloped her body in waves of perspiration. It took nearly half a minute for Snape to feel the flames licking at his left foot, and when he did he let out a short, indignant shriek, which, to Hermione, sounded very unusual coming from such a low vocal register.  
  
She smiled in exultation before putting out the flames with a whispered spell and a wand flick, and quickly rushed to exit the Slytherin stands and make her way back to those of Gryffindor. As she hastened across the pathway between Slytherin and Ravenclaw, she allowed herself a moment to finally look back at Harry and reassure herself of his safety.   
  
She nearly wept with joy at seeing him safely settled on his broom and lowering himself gracefully to the ground. And if that wasn't enough of a victory, the crowd discovered a moment later that Harry had caught the Golden Snitch in his *mouth*, believe it or not, on his way down from the air, thus winning his first ever Quidditch Tournament as well as continuing to be the Boy Who LIVED.   
  
Hermione, Ron and Harry clasped each other in a group hug after the whole ordeal, the former two positively exhausted but elated at being reunited with their friend, while the latter bubbled on about Quidditch statistics and his disbelief that he had now created a new record of excellence in the sport at Hogwarts.  
  
The three friends walked back to the main building arm in arm, Harry in the middle and Hermione and Ron on either side of him, as they laughed and joked about their close call, as people are wont to do after they've just come through a bad experience unscathed.   
  
But as they entered the school and made their way across the Entrance Hall, a dark shadow was cast over their conviviality; Professor Snape had loomed seemingly out of nowhere to block their way, his robes billowing behind his tall, forbidding frame though there was no wind blowing within the building.   
  
The children stopped dead in their tracks and looked up at him in trepidation; Harry out of his normal distrust of Snape, Ron and Hermione out of the newly acquired knowledge that this man had just tried to hurt or kill their best friend. What if he knew what they'd done to stop him? What would he do to them?  
  
But the dark Professor only fixed them with a penetrating scowl, his eyes lingering on each frightened face for an excruciatingly long moment before turning to scrutinize the next pair. He looked at Hermione last, and his eyes bored into hers for marginally longer than they had the others, narrowing inscrutably and with an intense gleam that seemed to sear her pupils. Then he abruptly turned away from the children and swept down the hallway that extended before them, his black robes rolling behind him as he receded into the darkness that the evening had brought to the castle.   
  
He said nothing. He hadn't the need; Hermione heard him speak of her betrayal louder and more eloquently than he ever could have expressed in a multitude of meaningless words. His eyes screamed of her treachery as she'd stared into them. Though she would have made the same decision a thousand times over, her heart ached mournfully for him, for what she'd done to him. For how she'd hurt him, just like she knew everyone else had.  
  
But she continued to walk with Harry and Ron through the castle to Gryffindor Tower, and she listened as Ron explained to Harry what Snape had attempted to do to him, and he in turn grew even more vengeful and angry towards the man. She heard every word, though she was not really *with* them, despite her physical presence.   
  
No, Hermione's spirit was lost in the chill darkness of the dank dungeons below them, completely devoted to the hopeless salvation of that forsaken specter, the lone human being that inhabited that desolate place. She was with him there as sure as if her body had taken her into the bowels of the ancient castle to join him.   
  
~*~  
  
Severus Snape paced his dungeon chambers throughout the night, in search of this or that rare ingredient to prepare and throw into one of several bubbling cauldrons that he had set out. Tonight he toiled with a ferocity he hadn't displayed in years. He was unable to sleep and unwilling to feign the action. The circle of light over his bed that had oft been such a comfort to him during times of woe and frustration failed to distract him from his troubles tonight.  
  
That girl, that *girl*! He knew it had been she who'd thwarted him at the competition today as surely as if he'd seen her do it with his own eyes. No other First Year he'd ever taught had been able to execute such an advanced spell correctly and with such confidence. But he knew that this girl had that ability; he saw it in her eyes, sensed it in her movements. Yes, he knew it had been she without a doubt.  
  
But what really clinched it was the glimpse he'd caught of the little prat's singularly bushy mane as she'd skittered out of sight down the staircase of the Slytherin stands. One of those rare mice that had outsmarted the cat.  
  
It shouldn't trouble him so; he knew that his very personality made a fugitive out of him in their eyes, and he admittedly did nothing to downplay it. But why *her*? Why did *she* have to be the one to take action on the suspicion? He had thought that all the time they'd been spending together would have changed the way—  
  
'What do you think she is, your little Gryffindor comrade?! Get ahold of yourself, Snape!' he chastened himself acidly. 'Let the *child* think what she wants, but if she still wants to work with *me*, she'll have another thing coming!'  
  
Snape's lips curled into a vicious smile, his eyes narrowing as if he could see the girl cowering before him now. With the smoke from the cauldron swirling about his face, he truly did look like the demon many thought him to be and had, in truth, once been for a time.  
  
***  
  
Hermione was experiencing a similar sense of imbroglio as she sat up in her bed in the girls' dorms of Gryffindor tower. She just *knew* that Snape was furious at her, that he felt totally betrayed; it was as if he were sending some sort of guilt-inducing spell up from the dungeons to torment her.   
  
'What did he expect me to do? How could I *not* do what I did!?' She debated with herself furiously. 'Doesn't he think I felt awful about it? I had to....I just *had* to....'  
  
She sighed and sank back into her pillows, forgotten textbooks and papers lying strewn about her on the bed. It was now clear that Morpheus would not be visiting her tonight, and she could pine for him no longer. No, she would have no respite from this torture until she threw on her robe, dragged her weary bones down to the dungeons and confronted her Professor (who would no doubt be quite ornery at this time of night, were he even awake) in person.  
  
And that is just what she did. Silently did she sneak from her dorm; stealthily did she slink from Gryffindor Tower; carefully did she creep through the myriad hallways, staircases, corridors and passageways that wound their way down and down into the dungeons, the very foundation on which the castle in its immense entirety rested.   
  
But as her tiresome journey came to a close and she found herself standing before the teacher's entrance to Snape's classroom and his chambers beyond, her body froze completely and prickled all over with icy goose bumps. Though she knew what she wanted—what she *needed*—to say to her Professor, she discovered she had no idea how she would be able to get it all out once faced with his inevitable fury at finding her here in his domain, let alone how late the hour was.   
  
She closed her eyes tightly, a painful lump rising in her throat making her realize that she'd stand here all night before knocking on his door. The frustration of indecision ripped at her emotions, now rendered completely incoherent in her state of futility and fatigue. But before she completely gave out and collapsed on the floor in tears, the faint sounds of an even tapping of boots on stone and gurgling of water reached her ears and rejuvenated her senses.  
  
The tears swiftly abated and her heart soared as this sweet music told her that Snape was indeed awake. Her impromptu visit would be considerably less disastrous because of this fact, and, her decision unequivocally made, she rose her fist quickly to rap three times on the great, wooden door before her.   
  
Snape nearly sliced through his finger instead of the bloodroot on the table, so shaken was he by the unanticipated knocking at his door; a racket that bespoke of a very unwelcome human intrusion into his inanimate world.   
  
His pale lips tightened into a thin line as he automatically stiffened his posture. Trying desperately to control his temper, he forced his mouth open and allowed the word "Enter" to slip icily through them.  
  
Hermione rushed to open the door and enter it, wishing to get this exchange over with as quickly as possible. Truly, she dreaded its outcome. Snape was standing tautly ten or so feet away from where she stood, his back facing her as he had stubbornly chosen not to face whoever had infiltrated his territory. She knew not how to begin and allowed a long moment of silence to stretch between them before he finally spoke, his sonorous voice even and cold.   
  
"Tell me what you want so I can give it to you and you can get out of here."  
  
The bleakness of his words struck her, causing her fear of him to diminish somewhat. Her large eyes grew soft as they rested on his back. But he felt only her refusal to answer him and his muscles tensed, his composure weakening.  
  
"You are only prolonging your departure and provoking my anger with your silence," he ground out, then whirled to face her furiously. "Now tell me what you w—"  
  
Recognition sparked in his eyes, paralyzing his body for an instant as his robes settled about his frame and his hair swept across his face. An expression of imploring vulnerability flashed in his eyes before his features hardened into a scowl.  
  
"What are *you* doing here?" he breathed as if repulsed by the girl. Hermione winced painfully, not bothering to hide her contrition from him.  
  
"Sir, I...," she attempted to explain her presence, her eyes searching his. "I came to, to talk with you about what happened today. At the tournament."  
  
He shot her a withering sneer, folding his arms tightly across his gaunt frame. "Ah, yes. The tournament." He mocked her cruelly with his tone. "I'd almost forgotten. I suppose you've come to apprehend me, then. Such a moral child, such an upstanding citizen of the wizarding world."  
  
His well-chosen words had wounded her skillfully, and her eyes fell to the floor. "No, I haven't—I wasn't...I just wanted to talk---"  
  
"To talk with me?" he spat vehemently at her. "To *talk* with me? About what I tried to do to? About what I could have done? About WHAT I *am*?!"   
  
Hermione cringed; his stinging words had caused tears to bead around her eyes. She struggled to stop herself from running away when he suddenly strode towards her furiously, leaving only a foot of space between them as he continued to rage.  
  
"Yes, I know it was you today, Granger! You're not so clever as those fools have allowed you to believe. But then I suppose I'm not either, for if I were I wouldn't have kept you so close for so long and even grow to trust you with my work without once suspecting that *you* suspected *me* the entire time!! YOU WRETCHED GIRL, YOU SET ME ON *FIRE*!!!"  
  
Hermione's shoulders hunched at his painful onslaught and she sank to her knees, cowering on the floor beneath him. She'd never felt such pure revulsion before, and that she knew it was directed at himself made her crumble hopelessly before him.   
  
"Professor, I...," she entreated him, a pained tear sliding down her cheek. Snape only scoffed at it contemptuously and turned away from her. He walked slowly behind his desk and braced his hands wearily upon it, his head bowed low. He released a long breath of air that seemed to drain him of his fury, leaving his body limp in its sudden absence. It was as if that purifying action had exorcized his anger towards Hermione, and he now only regretted the rift it had created between himself and the promising young student.  
  
"Why did you come here, girl? Do you pity me? Had you thought you could redeem my soul with your righteous words and your honorable intentions?" his voice was dull and empty, colored with only a trace of derision and ringing with an unexplained misery. "Don't waste your precious time on me, Miss Granger."   
  
An almost tender note had come into his voice then, a genuine sincerity. He raised his face just so his eyes could focus on her once again. His now relaxed features were marred only by the subtle crease between his brows, his expression honest and empty. "I did not, nor have I ever desired to hurt your friend. But though I tried to save him, there is no way to save my soul, for I damned myself to this life long ago and for a long time. So, please, child, do not devote any of yourself to my salvation; it would be in vain. I have earned my place in these dungeons and you deserve to shine in the light above, unhindered by such darkness."  
  
Hermione lifted her head to look at him, her eyes shining though her tears had finished falling. Her thoughts were jumbling about in her head as she tried to take in the many things he had said, but one glaring fact took precedence in her mind over all the others. She took in a ragged breath before opening her mouth to speak.   
  
"So you...you weren't trying to kill Harry?" Her small, earnest voice shook with emotion and exhaustion, but her body drew up slowly in renewed strength. Snape gave her a small, enigmatic smile; he knew that the simple knowledge of his goodwill towards her friend had the amazing power to redeem her shattered trust in him.  
  
"No, child. I was not."  
  
The relief that broke in Hermione's troubled features like the sun coming from behind the clouds was painfully obvious to Snape. He had to make a valiant effort not to recoil from the girl when she rose to her feet and went to stand shyly beside him at his desk.   
  
"I'm glad to know that, Professor," she told him in a soft, timid voice. "I don't know how to...say this, but I really wanted you to be on our side. I'm glad that I had been right in hoping everyone was wrong about you."  
  
Snape didn't know what to say to her, so overwhelmed was he by this admission. He didn't know why, but he felt insistently drawn to this child, and knew she felt the same to him. They were kindred, the same in some mysterious yet integral way. This realization only made her youth more apparent to him, and he unconsciously stood up straight as he regarded her.  
  
Her hair was quite disheveled and he could see her white, cotton nightdress poking out from underneath her robe. She put him in mind of a child up early on Christmas morning, and the association made him rather uncomfortable. That foreign, fatherly feeling for the girl that he never knew what to make of was coming over him again. His face became stern once again and he cleared his throat.  
  
"Yes, well, it's been a trying night, Miss Granger, and you should get to sleep before it catches up with you." Though this was the most concern by far that Snape had ever shown for her well-being, Hermione felt only hurt at his unwillingness to acknowledge her faith in him. She allowed her feet to drag along the floor as she went to the door, preparing to leave him alone behind her in these dank chambers.  
  
Snape did not want the girl to develop any kind of connection with him, he knew such a thing would be detrimental to both of their lives for many reasons; but the inmost part of him that was tied to her couldn't let the girl leave in such a sullen manner after what had transpired. Giving her the speck of encouragement needed to form such a dangerous attachment was not an intelligent thing to do, but intelligence was lost among the hills and valleys of emotion, a mere anthill in comparison.   
  
"Miss Granger," Snape called her softly. She turned to face him, her eyes growing bright. "Thank you."  
  
A wave of happiness washed over Hermione, and she beamed a grateful smile at him before leaving the classroom. She felt as if this encounter had been the culmination of weeks of anguish and thought, as if all the confusion she'd felt towards her Professor could now be resolved. Now that she knew for certain where his loyalties lay, her mind would no longer be plagued by him.   
  
...But if that were the case, and everything was, indeed, resolved, how come his face as he thanked her now was permanently etched in her memory, seeming to replay over and over again?  
  
'Thank you....Thank you, Miss Granger....Thank you so much, Hermione....'.  
  
'Oh, no, not again....'. 


	9. When Water Won't Put Out The Fire

Beneath the Surface  
  
Chapter the Eighthe: When Water Won't Put Out The Fire  
  
The rest of Hermione's First Year at Hogwarts passed in a blur of anxiety and stress. The Dark side, namely Voldemort acting through their Professor Quirrell (an unexpected discovery, at best), finally closed in on herself, Harry and Ron, and all three of them went after it instinctively. They followed it past the dreaded Fluffy, through the suffocating Devil's Snare, beyond the door with the enchanted key, and over the human-sized wizard's chess board, where Ron was finally felled and Harry had asked Hermione to keep watch over him while he went on to defeat Quirrell/Voldemort. Though she worried for Harry's safety, a voice within her said that he would be alright, and that he needed to go forth alone to face whatever evil lay beyond. Now, Hermione was not one to listen to 'little inner voices', but they were in a very tense situation, Ron was unconscious, and the serious, confident look in Harry's eyes had been more than enough to convince her that he was prepared to face his destiny alone. The little speech she gave him about the advantages of being courageous and loyal over being intelligent and studious was, in retrospect, a rather pathetic, if heartfelt, occurrence that she chalked up to the extreme duress she had been under when she gave it.   
  
One thing she was incredibly glad for after all was said and done was that Snape's innocence in the entire matter was now a fact to Harry, Ron and all who might have doubted him. Though it very well could have swayed their belief in his guilt, Hermione had never mentioned the discussion she'd had with their Potions Master on the night after the quidditch tournament to Harry and Ron. Somehow she knew that her Professor would have wanted her to keep it from them and everyone else; as if it were a rare moment of vulnerability he had shown to her that he wouldn't want anyone else to know he were even capable of, despite the fact that it would have brought his innocence to light and probably even improve his general reputation among the students as well.   
  
But aside from that, she never had secrets all to herself, not really, and she really liked the idea of having her very own secret between herself and the darkest, most mysterious man in the entire school. Even though it wasn't really a *secret* secret, when she considered it; just an unusually candid conversation.   
  
Hermione felt connected to him somehow after that, as if an intangible yet iron cast thread that ran from one mind to the other had joined the unlikely two. She had never felt such a connection with anyone, not even her parents, and she vowed that however this strange relationship between herself and Professor Snape developed, she would forever strive to keep it intact. She could only hope that he valued her company as much as she did his.  
  
On their last day of school, only hours before the children were to depart, Hermione made herself a thousand excuses for her need to say good-bye to her Potions Professor before they were inevitably, if temporarily, separated by the long months of summer, but found herself at his door armed with only the raw urge to see him itself.   
  
She held her breath and dredged up all the courage she possessed before knocking on the door. There was a long pause, and Hermione's lungs felt about to burst from lack of air as her heart plummeted to her stomach with a sickening emptiness.  
  
'I *so* wanted to see him just once before we left...'.  
  
But before she turned and walked away with her head hung low, a soft yet commanding 'Enter' was uttered from within the chamber in her Professor's unmistakably resonant voice. Her heart flew from her stomach and caught in her throat, and she let out a long-awaited breath before quickly opening the door and peeking her head into the classroom. It was completely empty, save for Snape himself, whose presence somehow made an unoccupied room seem even more barren than if it were completely devoid of humanity.   
  
He was leafing through some parchments as he stood before his desk, positioned so she could see his entire form in perfect profile (he had evidently dispensed with the formality of actually facing his visitors long ago, if ever he'd done so at all). But instead of scowling obdurately at life in general, his expression was relaxed by a tentative calmness that seemed rather foreign to his being. Perhaps he was relieved that the school year was over.   
  
The dungeon classroom, normally so dark that it had to be constantly lit by numerous candelabra, was now illuminated only by the dazzling afternoon sunlight that flooded through the high, large windows cut from the castle stone. One window was located beyond and over Snape's desk, and the rays of the light that passed through it fell just behind where he stood, its edges resting tenderly against his back like the longing embrace of a forgotten paramour. His ebony hair shimmered invitingly under its blazing touch, and the sight of him languishing against it caused Hermione to wonder strangely, 'Whoever said the light was not a friend to Severus Snape?'   
  
Hermione could now recognize the tendrils of wonder that streamed themselves around her mind when she considered Snape thus as the beginnings of the burgeoning obsession she occasionally developed for the man–i.e., that silly crush was coming back again. And she'd better just say what she came to say now before it took full hold over her senses, which would make her summer without him simply unbearable.  
  
"Professor?" Hermione called out to him tremulously, afraid that she was disturbing him (and she knew what kind of a fate befell those who intruded on his blessed solitude).  
  
"Miss Granger," he greeted her in a tone that suggested he'd been aware of her presence even though he hadn't once looked in her direction. In fact, he sounded almost amused. As Hermione pondered the possible reasons for this, Snape rolled his eyes heavenward, barely containing his smile at the girl's peculiar ways.   
  
"Are you going to come in, or aren't you?" he snapped at her, feigning irritation. When he saw from his peripheral vision that Hermione was only gaping at him like a startled fish out of water, he gave an exasperated sigh and finally turned his head to glare sharply at her. "Well, come on, girl! Didn't your mother ever teach you that it's rude to lurk in doorways? And close that door behind you; I don't want any of that dreadful castle air getting in here."  
  
Hermione pressed her lips tightly together to keep from smiling, for she knew he was joking (he must be! No one could honestly be so cantankerous). She pulled the heavy door closed and it shut with a muffled thud. A dense silence ensued between them momentarily, in which every movement either of them made created tiny echoes throughout the dungeon. Though it was certainly not their first time alone together, Hermione had never been more aware of it than now. Or of the possibilities that could arise from such a situation.  
  
Snape sensed the fervid tension that brewed within the girl (he could verily smell it, so attuned had his senses become to those of another), and he frowned to himself as he considered its cause.  
  
'Strange little thing....It feels almost as if she's readying herself for a tryst.' His eyes darkened imperceptibly, and they slid away from the timid girl, who, thankfully, did not seem to take note of his intense deliberation as she was too busy blinking at her shoes. 'No....She wouldn't dare. She is but a child!....Perhaps I'm losing my touch...'.  
  
Snape cleared his throat, refocusing on Hermione. He wanted to abandon that line of thought there and then and never come across it again, so did it disturb him, and in so many ways.   
  
"Miss Granger, I suggest you state your business here, and in a succinct and timely manner at that. I am certain that you are as eager to rid yourself of this place as well as of myself, and your time of departure draws ever nearer with each moment that you waste here."  
  
Hermione just stared at him blankly for a moment. 'Can't he *ever* just SAY something straight out?! Of course, the way he speaks is so very elegant and clever---'. Hermione cleared her throat as well, immediately cutting off that train of thought. And then paused. Of course, when one makes a show of noising their vocal chords, it is only to be expected that they wish to say something of note. And Hermione had no idea how to say what she wanted here. She cleared her throat again; best to start over.  
  
"Well, sir," she began seriously. "As you know, the end of the year is fast coming to a close, and I don't think I'd be entirely wrong in thinking—in saying, that we...that you and I, have become..."  
  
"Miss Granger, do get on with it!" Snape barked at her. "Is this a discussion or a persuasive essay?!" Hermione swallowed audibly.  
  
"Forgive me, sir, I just don't quite know how to say this," she said with a tinge of misery coloring her voice as she lowered her head. Snape frowned again, regretting his rude comments to her. He moved closer to her, folding his arms loosely across his chest. An earnest glow shone dimly within his black eyes, allowing the tiniest hint of concern to show in his otherwise somber face as he looked down upon her.  
  
"Forgive *me*, Miss Granger," he said tiredly. "I spoke too rashly. Tell me, child, what is it?" When she said nothing (had her face not been hidden from him, he would have seen a mixture of both surprise and disquiet therein), he went on. "Miss Granger, though circumstances would imply that I am what many think me to be; to put it rather politely, a heartless blackguard—and I admit I've done precious little to prove myself to be otherwise—I assure you that I am neither blind nor...immoveable to the suffering of others."  
  
He paused for a moment, allowing his words to sink into Hermione as well as deliberating what to say next. Hermione's face, though still down-turned, had become completely expressionless as she listened to him; he was actually reaching out to her, in his reserved way, and she wanted to take in every single word of his distant empathy. No one had ever even attempted to identify with her inmost feelings, and she was absorbing his every syllable like a plant taking its first drink of water after a long drought.   
  
"I have noticed—we've all noticed, all of your Professors—that, though you are...quite intelligent, you are an unusually serious little girl." Here Snape cradled his chin between his thumb and forefinger. "I hope you are not taking offense to what I am saying, Miss Granger, and if you are, please tell me so at once."  
  
Hermione only shook her head very slowly and silently; rather like a zombie or some such lifeless creature. Snape frowned again, but continued on.   
  
"Very well. As I was saying, you are mature beyond your years, not only in your work at in class, but in the way you...carry yourself. Do you understand what I mean?"  
  
Again, the torpid nod.   
  
"Good. Now, Miss Granger...," Snape faltered. He didn't want to intimate himself too deeply with the child, but he felt that if she were to trust him enough to inform him of any problem she was having that was interfering with her general happiness, he would have to let her know that he understood whatever could be amiss with her. And the best way to do this was to give the person some personal information that could possibly correspond with whatever difficulties they might be having, and let them know that they are not alone in their sorrow.   
  
'Merlin, why do I feel the need to communicate with this child?'  
  
Snape inhaled the air deeply, and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he was ready to speak.   
  
"Miss Granger, I want you to know that when I was a...child, I, myself, was...overly serious in nature. About everything." He felt her tense ever so slightly, as if she was responding favorably to what he was saying. Encouraged, he went on. "The...difficulties that I experienced were, no doubt, different than what you know in your own life, but the...pain, that such things cause is akin in every soul. And the pain I experienced was very great."  
  
Snape paused for a minute, his eyelids lightly touching as the ill-concealed torments of his childhood flashed behind his eyes. The breath he took to calm himself this time was just audible to human ears. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut as well as a torrent of incoherent red anguish ripped through her mind. When a singularly empathetic being is this close to another, they can sense and experience especially strong feelings as if they were their own, if but for only a moment. And this moment was horrendously bleak and empty for Hermione, and though it did pass quickly, its image would stay forever burned into her brain. After Snape exhaled long and silently, he spoke again.  
  
"I am telling you this so that you can understand that I know how...alone you feel. When a person is...gifted with intelligence superior to and emotions more intense than those of an average human being, life can indeed be a very desolate and lonely place. But Miss Granger...". And here Snape paused for a moment before tentatively reaching out his pale, graceful hand with its spidery fingers and placing them gently under Hermione's chin. She saw it coming towards her face as if it were part of a specter in a dream, and she shivered faintly as the long, cool fingers finally made contact with her warm skin. But she did not struggle when he gripped her jaw softly and slowly lifted her face until it met his, until she was looking into his eyes.  
  
Though his expression remained grim, his heart leapt at the sight of her small, upturned face, so solemn and fragile. Her tiny mouth was parted so her pink tongue was just visible, having gone somewhat slack from his unexpected words and even more impulsive touch. But her eyes were so overwhelmingly bright and intense as they penetrated into his, too brilliant for such a young child. He knew as he looked into them that she was molded from the same clay as he, forged in the same fire. Whatever implements had been used in this life to carve the individual marks in their flesh, they would forever be joined, be *connected* to each other beneath the surface of the skin, for they had been created by the same hand.   
  
"Hermione," Snape breathed, his breath dry and odorless as it ghosted onto her face, and his features slowly changed into an expression of the deepest sorrow and regret as he stroked her chin with his thumb tenderly. "Though the flames of curiosity lick torturously at your very being, do not seek to put them out with the waters of knowledge and ecstasy borne of this Earthly plane. Though they will put out the fire and numb your pain, the relief will be but brief, and each time the fire is lit again within you, it will burn with that much more intensity!"  
  
Confusion caused her eyelids to flutter, and Snape shut his as he sighed unevenly. He knew that she could not possibly understand all of this now, not while she was still so innocent.  
  
"Look at me," he said, trying another approach. "See my anger, see my frustration, see my sorrow. You do not want to become this."  
  
After he said this, his features slowly lost their zealous quality, quickly dulling until his face relaxed back into a sober expression. His eyes moved past Hermione's, and stared distantly at something she couldn't see. He loosened his grip on her chin and his hand slowly dropped to his side. Hermione watched its descent regretfully, her brow furrowing as she tried to comprehend his words.   
  
All of a sudden, the rush of several dozen pounding footfalls whooshed past the door, accompanied by childish whooping and hollering. The school year had officially ended, and it was time for Hermione to leave.  
  
Both she and Snape came back to themselves at once and straightened their postures. Hermione stole a doleful glance up at Snape, who appeared to be fiercely contemplating her. Her eyebrows shot up and she blinked several times, alarmed by his sudden renewed mental alacrity.  
  
'I reaaaaaaally shouldn't have said that to her...'.   
  
He'd thought he had a rein on his tempestuous emotions by now. That he could at least deceive a student into thinking that he was nothing more than a foul-tempered, malicious git. Apparently not so. He was furious at himself! In fact, he could barely contain his rage towards himself at this moment, and he knew that if he didn't get the girl out of his classroom—out of the school!—right this minute that he would vent his rancor on her. And he did not want that to happen, he couldn't let himself do that to her. Not now that he knew they were spiritually connected—   
  
"*Ahem* Miss Granger," he announced suddenly. The girl started to attention and stared at him expectantly. But he could not bring himself to look at her as he said: "Have an enjoyable summer holiday, and I'll see you next term."  
  
And with a swirl of his robes, he pivoted and stalked purposefully to his office, swiftly entering and slamming the door behind him. He hadn't looked back once.  
  
Hermione remained still as a rod for approximately five minutes, her mouth agape (yes, like a fish) as she stared at the door to his office in disbelief. Finally, she began to sputter.  
  
"What!? How—where—you—I—I—I DON'T BELIEVE HIM!!!" she screamed into the air in exasperation, not caring whether Snape heard her or not. It was just as bloody well if he did, as far as she was concerned! His behavior was absolutely, positively and without a doubt inexcusable! How could he delve into her mind, gain her trust, completely rope her in and then bid her good day as if nothing whatsoever had occurred between them?! She just didn't understand it. The audacity! The nerve! The WEIRDNESS!!!   
  
Hermione concentrated every ounce of fury that wrung throughout her body on Snape's office door, just stared daggers into it. If looks could kill, and pass through walls, Snape would be but a charred, sizzling corpse at that moment.   
  
"I HOPE YOU HAVE THE WORST SUMMER HOLIDAY OF YOUR LIFE, SNAPE!!!" she screeched, her voice reaching a decibel that only pre-adolescent girls could possibly attain. Then she immediately turned and stalked out of the potions classroom, opened both its doors and then hurled them as hard as she possibly could against their hinges. The resulting crash nearly split each door down its middle and resounded throughout the dungeons and most of the first floor; a fitting cacophony for her dramatic exit.  
  
Little did Hermione know as she made her way to the carriages with Harry and Ron, fighting admirably to both calm and conceal her thoughts the entire way (as her two friends stoically ignored her torment), that her now reviled Professor Snape was sitting alone in his bottle-and-body-part-filled office, smiling ruefully to himself as he brooded about the once-blossoming relationship between himself and his brilliant, young student and her inevitable yet necessary expulsion from his personal life. Though this incident greatly saddened him, indeed more than he cared to admit to himself at present, he could not stop a disturbing thought from nagging at his mind.  
  
'I just had a lovers' spat with an eleven-year-old...'. 


	10. Holiday Heat In Parallel

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to my dear friend the Captain^_~. She is an awesome and funny person, as well as a very special one out of the many amazing people out there who really inspire me to write this stuff just by appreciating it so much. So, here's my attempt at a decent, albeit late, 'Happy holidays' and 'thank you' to a very worthwhile and entertaining person. Thanx much, Cap'n^_^!  
  
P.s.: yes, I am more than well aware of what a...strange chapter I've chosen to dedicate to a good friend of mine. It's the thought, peopleO_o.  
  
P.p.s.: ff.net is a buttXP. They won't let me update there for a while because they say my default chapter was immoral in some way. Honestly! Rule of humanity, folks: the more something is forbidden from a person, the further lengths they will go to discover it. (aff is SO much cooler for these reasons; should've gone here a long time ago. Ah, but I am lazy and forgetfulO_x). So, if people just told life like it is, I can guarantee you all that there wouldn't be half so many problems in the world, namely the U.S.A.! Oy...I get kind of frustrated, hehe^^;. Okay, enough politics and the like from me; on with the story^_^:  
  
Beneath the Surface  
  
Chapter the Ninthe: Holiday Heat In Parallel  
  
Now that he was transiently free of the endless parade of students that constantly flowed in and out of his world like sea shells on a beach, Severus Snape could go about his business undisturbed by the restrictions his occupation placed upon his time. Instead of being trapped in the dungeons every night, he was able to venture off to any destination he pleased when his now accustomed insomnia plagued him. As his days were no longer structured by his teaching schedule, he could laze about in his rooms during the sunlit hours, devouring lengthy tome after ancient novel that he hadn't gotten around to absorbing during the school year or working for hours on end to improve this elixir or to create that concoction in his private potions lab. Though he spent not a moment languishing outside under the warm summer sun, he cherished the season for the unequivocal freedom it offered him.  
  
So it was strange to him how, for the first time in the long decade he'd served as a Professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he wasn't really enjoying the summer holidays at all; in fact, he didn't seem to be even present in his body for the majority of the time. Though it wasn't unusual that he spent most of his time alone in his dungeon chambers even during his free time, his excursions into the outside world were even rarer than during the school year. When he came out of an extensive mental reverie, he absently took note of his strange behavior, but did not make any effort to change it. He had given up on attempting to understanding himself long ago; he just *was*, as far as he was concerned. And what he was, was inescapably deranged. Enough said.  
  
The only thing he was fully conscious of was that he was unconsciously trying not to think about something that was particularly disturbing to him, and his mind was rejecting the image with such fervor that it was working overtime to distract him with everything and anything to keep him from mental wakefulness.   
  
The only feeling Snape could manage to dredge from his being was of a profound gratefulness that, as he usually did when in the throes of personal alienation, he was not resorting to any and all forms of debauchery and self-destruction to shatter shards of his detachment from reality by seeking out the worst of it.  
  
Thus, the first half of the summer passed quickly, each day a blur that was indistinguishable from the next.   
  
It was during one fine, sunshiny summer day, in the midst of his disconnected turmoil, that Severus Snape managed to detect and actively decipher a distinct sensation. It had been a while since this particular need had overtaken his senses, due more to exhaustion and preoccupation than anything else, but its discovery was neither shocking nor disturbing to him.   
  
Lust was a fickle friend to Severus Snape, indeed.  
  
He supposed that a brief sojourn to the pleasure quarters of Knockturn Alley wouldn't be entirely intolerable. It had been rather a long time since he'd last visited the Alley (not since the Christmas Holidays, he believed), and as he stealthily slipped from his dungeon lair and through the grounds of Hogwarts, he felt his heart quicken in a sort of anticipatory excitement that he hadn't experienced in quite some time, and he knew it was not only from the effects of his apparation.  
  
~*~  
  
Hermione Granger's summer holidays had been spent in much the same way as her Potions Professor's, though she had no way of knowing it. She had been so long out of touch with the few Muggle friends she had that to telephone them with the intention of getting together would be rather awkward for her. Plus, she didn't know what they'd find to talk about now that she was a practicing witch, and much preferred that way of life over the one that had so alienated her in all her years before discovering her chosen path.   
  
But even if the chance to reminisce with old friends did come along, Hermione was the type of person who preferred the controlled and purely one-sided exchange where knowledge was given freely and unguardedly in the open pages of a book, rather than gleaned with much more difficulty and obsequiousness from the often inferior human sources of it.   
  
And so she spent her entire holiday holed up in her small and dusty bedroom, alone day in and day out, her only companions the many books of both fact and fiction that lined her shelves. Hermione's favorite thing to do in the world was read, for it was only within the world of literature that she could experience such intense feelings as hope, faith, anguish and passion.   
  
Hermione read to know how to live, how to change, how to struggle, and, most of all, to escape from her own feelings, for she simply did not know how to deal with such things when they were inspired by herself rather than lived vicariously through a book. And so she remained in her room all summer, losing herself in the endless pages and volumes.  
  
Though her parents wondered at her increasing isolation from the world outside their comfortable, suburban home, they were not worried by it, nor did they attempt to draw her out of her room. They knew how intelligent Hermione was, and they trusted any decision she might make for herself. Also, the Grangers, though a very friendly and congenial couple, were not exceedingly open nor liberal with their feelings.   
  
Hermione knew that she was indeed loved and cared for, but she had never been attached to her parents in the way that a child normally was. She'd had no problems adjusting to being without them when she went off to school; in fact, when she'd first gone to pre-school, it wasn't at all difficult to cope with their separation. For Hermione Granger had always felt separated from her family, since as long as she could remember.   
  
Sometimes she wondered why her mother and father had even wanted a child in the first place, though she was not sad in pondering this. It arose from watching her parents with their younger patients (they were both dentists; practically the same person in every way, Hermione noted); they were kind and gentle with them, but of course a rather impenetrable barrier existed between doctor and patient that prevented personal attachments from forming between themselves and the children. This was just how Hermione's relationship was with her parents. They could have accidentally taken home another child from work in her place and not have noticed the difference for quite some time, Hermione thought almost jokingly.  
  
And this was precisely why she was still so troubled by her last meeting with Professor Snape. Never, not in all her young life, had someone ever given so much of themselves to her so openly, nor had anyone thrown so many differing emotions at her so unabashedly. The entire experience was positively confounding! She simply didn't know what to make of it, or him. What was one to do when another all but forcibly pulled her into the deepest recesses of their mind and then tossed her back out on her own without a thought? It was all just so confusing, so infuriating, so...addictive.  
  
At least it had the capacity to be such. This frightened poor Hermione so much that she came to fairly dread having to see her baffling Potions Professor again; unfortunately for her, their reunion was inevitable. And as summer's end drew nearer and nearer, her panic over returning to school (something she'd never even considered feeling) began to reach a fever pitch within her, and her stomach roiled with apprehension as her mind roared with fear. She had to figure out a way to get through this, or she would have some sort of a nervous—  
  
'Oh! I haven't read this book in ages. 'Beautiful Joe'. Perfect...'.  
  
~*~  
  
Severus Snape nearly smiled when a shudder of relief ran through and relaxed his tense body; Madam Min's House of Mirth was just in sight now. It was a deceptively simple building on the outside, being constructed of dark wood and built in the shape of a large, sturdy square, but within, the House of Mirth was disarmingly elegant and refined.  
  
The lower level contained a vast dining room, which was reminiscent of that of a Victorian chateau, decorated in luxurious shades of azure and gold. This room was connected by ceiling-high slide-away doors to an equally large and opulent parlor, done in lurid shades of deep red, that had numerous comfortable divans and sofas and was constantly illuminated by candelabra, which lent it an amorous glow. The upper level of the House was solely devoted to the private consummation of the attachments made downstairs, and had many small yet sumptuous rooms, all painted in various shades of a different yet single color scheme, for these purposes.   
  
Severus preferred the violet, himself.   
  
He'd chosen an elegant black suit for this outing that was reminiscent of the Edwardian fashions. Though it was not overly tight, it fit him very well and showed off his strong yet slender structure. Over his clothes he wore a long, well-cut frock-coat (black, of course). He'd decided to forego wearing a hat, as the temperature outside was simply too oppressive for it. One would wonder how he could be comfortable in all his layers in such heat, but he'd always had very low blood pressure and found himself almost always cold.  
  
As he entered the house, he was greeted by the robust and radiant Madam Min herself, along with a bevy of her stunning, live-in charges. They fussed and fawned over him, exclamations of 'Mister Snape, how wonderful to see you again!', 'it's been so long!' and 'how we've missed you!' ringing in his ears as they fluttered around him. He favored them with an appreciative, closed-lipped smile and a courtly bow, at which they giggled flirtatiously.   
  
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I can see that it finds you very well indeed," he said suggestively in his silkiest tone of voice. Not one of his audience was unaffected by its power. "It is sheer heaven to see you again."  
  
And, after giving one last coy smile to his coquettish admirers, he moved smoothly into the parlor room. His eyes darted about the room calmly as he searched for the reason for his return to this urbane place of debauchery. As he found her reclining languidly on an ornate chaise, his eyes became sharp and seemed lit from within by a predatory gleam. She was resplendent in a full-length yet form-fitting indigo, gauzy dress. It was sleeveless and had a daring, yet not obscene, low neckline, and the flowing tendrils of fabric that hung from its thick straps and ran down the back and skirt lent the already beautiful lady an ethereal quality. She was absolutely breathtaking. Snape smiled secretively to himself and settled against the far wall to quietly observe her.  
  
Belladonna was half-heartedly arguing with a richly dressed, hopeful client, who had engaged her in the pretentious discussion about the meaning of the painting that hung over their heads (which was of a melancholy, childlike young woman sitting amidst a hoard of leering men; of the many people within it, only she looked directly at the viewer of the piece) when he sensed her intelligence. The silly man had it all wrong, and was clearly no match for Belladonna; that much was evident by her bored expression as she idly studied the people around her.   
  
Severus loved that fierce yet playful cleverness of hers, more so than her physical beauty (which was considerable; Belladonna was a curvaceous 5'7", 138 pound woman who had long been one of the House of Mirth's main attractions. With her smoky grey eyes, long, waving red hair, and open, heart-shaped face, it was not hard to see why), but then, both were more appreciative of the inner qualities of another that enhanced their beings, rather than merely the outer. Severus had first met her several years ago, and since their first night together he'd seen her almost exclusively (not solely though, of course). Their attraction was mutual, and they enjoyed each other's company immensely. They were friends first, sexual partners after (though always following). Severus went to her when he wanted more than just a physical exchange, he went to her when he wanted to communicate with another person as well. And she was a very good person to talk to; she was worldly, and her intelligence was not hindered by the scruples of their society.  
  
She had a mysterious, content knowingness which rested deep in her eyes and a deathly certain smile that constantly curved her small, yet full, dark red lips that belied her brief span of 27 years in this world. Many would question why such a woman would be satisfied with her line of work, but satisfied Belladonna was.   
  
Severus had come to believe that there were two distinct types of intelligent people in this world: those who used their minds to benefit their bodies, and those who *were* their minds and just carried their bodies along with them as a necessity. Severus was most definitely the latter sort, but he had discovered how to enjoy the pleasurable sensibilities of the former. And today, he had decided to be Belladonna's sort.  
  
He stifled an amused snort as he continued to watch Belladonna from afar; the hopeless suitor was still attempting to interest her, but she remained remote, now twirling a strand of flaming hair in her delicate fingers, the nails of which matched the color of her lips. When her mascara-ed eyes finally raked over his general direction and then focused on him, she nearly did a double take. But the giddy, wide-eyed surprise was swiftly replaced by a schooled, seductive smile as he approached her. Severus returned her smile with a feral grin of his own that revealed his fang-like canines; it caused Belladonna to flutter her eyelashes prettily at him.  
  
"Miss LaBeau," he greeted her courteously, inclining his head as he gracefully extended a long hand to her. She accepted it a bit too eagerly, and turned apologetically to her now sulking admirer as she rose with Snape's help.  
  
"Forgive me, Mister Beatlebrow," she said, adeptly feigning sincerity. Hearing her clear, musical voice wash over his senses after having gone so long without it nearly made Severus lose his bearings and pull her tightly to him in a grateful embrace. Instead, he contented himself to merely hear her speak further. "But we are old friends, Mister Snape and I, and haven't seen each other in so long. I do hope you'll come visit me again sometime; we simply must continue that..enlightening conversation about the painting."  
  
The young gentleman's sour face lit up with a beaming smile as Belladonna spoke to him, and he rose quickly to clasp her hand in his and kiss it while removing his hat and bowing deeply to her. His adulation was really quite overwhelming. When Belladonna looked awkwardly at Severus, he sighed and offered his hand to the young man, who shook it briefly.  
  
"Mr. Beatlebrow," Snape acknowledged him shortly.  
  
"Mr. Snape," the man returned, then swiftly turned back to Belladonna to gush and bow some more. Snape rolled his eyes in amusement; he had never been so impetuous as a youth, and could not understand what this boy expected to accomplish by such ridiculous behavior. Inclining his head politely to the man, he gently took Belladonna's arm and led her away.  
  
Beatlebrow was still genuflecting to his goddess as she and Snape exited the parlor in favor of their accustomed room (which had been swiftly vacated and tidied up by Madam Min's servants when Snape had arrived at the House). Severus nodded to familiar faces they passed on the way, and Belladonna gripped his arm warmly as she looked up at his face, which was trained into a cold, impenetrable mask. She smirked to herself, knowing that he wasn't always so stoic. She found it charming that he kept up such a harsh facade in public when he was so playful once one got to know him intimately.  
  
"Hello, Severus," she said in a low, affectionate tone.  
  
"Hello, Donna," he said softly without looking at her, but the corner of his mouth lifted nearly imperceptibly, and his features softened just as subtly. She knew this hint of a smile meant that he was pleased to see her, and she returned it indulgently, knowing that he could see her expression even without facing her. That was another of his mysterious ways. She squeezed his arm in a sudden burst of excitement.  
  
"It feels like it's been an age since I've seen you last! What on Earth have you been doing with yourself?" she asked him genially, knowing he never responded to pleasantries or trivial conversation.  
  
"Nothing that needs doing, now that I'm with you," he teased her in a dry tone. She slapped his arm with her free hand playfully. They were now standing before the threshold to their room for the evening.  
  
"Now, Severus, behave yourself. I've missed you too much for you to make fun of me so." And here her expression became somewhat serious through her mischief. "Truthfully, how have you been?"  
  
Severus finally faced her and looked into her eyes through lowered lids, his smirk softening. He delicately removed her hand from his arm so that he could open the door to their violet room.   
  
"Truthfully, I've been in need of some companionship," he said tiredly, but again offered her that slight smile. "Shall we?"  
  
He stood beside the entrance and extended a graceful arm, indicating that he wished her to precede him into the room. She smiled coyly at him before doing so, her hips swaying provocatively as she swished past him, consciously allowing the filmy fabric of her gown to brush against his torso. He rolled his eyes in mocking annoyance, smirking to himself at her blatant invitation.   
  
Once inside, he closed and secured the door behind him, then leaned back against it and watched as Belladonna sat on the edge of the magnificent, four-poster canopy bed and removed her shoes. They were an elegant pair of silvery Greek sandals, and had strings that wound around her shapely calves up to her knee. She was making quite a show of taking them off, slowly untying and unwinding the strings before allowing them to slip from her dainty feet and onto the floor. Severus smirked again.  
  
"So, Donna, my dear," he said to her. "How have you been? Truthfully." She favored him with a playful smile.  
  
"Oh, I've been just ducky, darling. You know how it is here." She began to pout, raising her hands to undo the silver band that she had woven into her hair. The fiery tendrils of her hair tumbled around her shoulders and down her back attractively. "But it's been so dull lately. No one interesting has come to call, no one even remotely distinguished. Just an endless parade of the same snotty, little rich toffs."  
  
"Oh, you poor, unfortunate creatures...Ow! Alright, I'm sorry, just don't throw the other one!" Severus pleaded, his arms raised to shield his face.  
  
Belladonna chuckled melodiously and let her other shoe drop to the floor from her hand. Then she looked up into Severus' dark eyes warmly, her own shining with longing. "I've missed you so much, Sev. It's not the same here without you."  
  
Severus allowed his lips to curve upwards into an appreciative smile, but he lowered his head, his eyes downcast. He was quite fond of Belladonna, she was a wonderful, giving person, and he valued her friendship greatly; but he had never, not even in the beginning of their acquaintanceship, wanted anything more from her than what they already had. He did love her, but it was as a lonely soul loved one of the very few that had ever reached out to them. He knew she wanted more than what he was willing to give her, and felt badly that he could not do so; but he simply couldn't bring himself to forsake her entirely. Both for her sake and his own.  
  
Belladonna knew just what he felt for her, and what he could not; he didn't need to say anything for her to understand him, such was the depth of their relationship. She was used to feigning romantic feelings for her patrons; in fact, she had become a first-rate actor in the ways of love. Yet she found it very hard to affect the opposite emotions when she was with Severus. She accepted what they had, but she still hoped for more, if only in the furthest corners of her mind. She sighed softly without thinking, and then lowered her face so Severus couldn't see the feelings that she just couldn't hide, the ardent yearning for him burning there as naked and fragile as the flames of the candles which dimly illuminated the small room.  
  
Snape pressed his eyelids together in regret; he had heard her lamentation, and he, too, could know what she was feeling without needing to see her face or hear her speak.   
  
Being at a rare loss for words, Severus slowly drew closer to Belladonna until he was standing before her. He suddenly needed to look into her face, and slowly sank to the floor to kneel at her feet so her head was higher than his. She started as he rose a searching hand to her face, but allowed it to tremulously stroke her cheek and then rest against it. As he looked calmly up into her stormy grey eyes, she felt as if she were floating within his black fathomless ones.   
  
She took in a shuddering breath at the sight of him kneeling so still and quiet before her, looking up at her so openly; he put her in mind of an innocent child gazing raptly at its mother. There was no barrier shielding his eyes, and they were amazing and haunting in their contented misery.   
  
She felt so small before the calm intensity he radiated, and her own vulnerability frightened her. No one had ever made her feel this way, for she was a professional in such matters of the heart....No, the mind was where they were borne and sustained. And she never knew what to do with hers when she was with him. She couldn't take that terribly beautiful look in his eyes any longer, so she squeezed hers shut.  
  
He brought his other hand to tangle gently into her hair, and then only used the slightest amount of force to lower her face to his. He tilted his head but didn't close his eyes as he pressed his lips soundly to hers for a fervent kiss.  
  
~*~  
  
'I wonder what Pro...what Snape's doing now...,' Hermione couldn't stop herself from pondering resentfully, having already finished reading or skimming the seven books she'd borrowed from their local library just yesterday; it had been her only outing for the entire month of August, and September was fast approaching.   
  
She now lay lethargically on her small bed, one arm thrown back against her pillow to rest over her voluminous hair, the other draped across her narrow rib cage. One of her skinny legs hung limply from the side of the bed, and she allowed it to dangle back and forth like a weighty pendulum in her boredom. Her book-strewn but otherwise tidy room was beginning to grow dim as dusk pushed the sun down with her dark yet brilliant fingers of deep purple, rose and sapphire. The fading light that spilled fluidly from the window behind her bed (the only window in the room) delicately illuminated Hermione's pale face, whose features were completely relaxed, save for a tiny furrow above her brow; she stared dully up at her ceiling, but concentrated on nothing visible as she let her thoughts wander of their own accord.   
  
'Does he even go anywhere during holidays, like, a vacation?' She scoffed aloud at her own question. Of course the contemptible bat didn't dare to venture out of its gloomy cave, and Hermione doubted that 'it' would desire to even if the opportunity arose. It was unlikely that Snape would decide to visit any family he might have, and it was even more unlikely that they would have him, if such people existed. That, too, was debatable, at best. Frightening was a more apt term; what sort of sadistic horrors would be unleashed upon the wizarding world if there was more than one Snape consigned to it? Hermione shuddered at the thought. It was bad enough that anyone who attended, taught at, or was even remotely involved in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was fated to be scarred forever and tormented by the very *memory* of the vile man!   
  
'Bad enough that *I* have to be,' Hermione sulked. Her hand was disturbed from its resting place over her stomach as she heaved a weary sigh that was tinged with despair.   
  
Was she doomed to vacillate between feelings of over-enamored devotion and maddening indignation for her Professor, yet be obsessed with the man throughout either, forever? If so, her personal life would be all but ruined, and she would be forced live out its remainder as a lonely and love-starved spinster; for who could possibly compare to Snape—damn him!—for better or for worse? She was the first to admit how high her standards were, and proudly so. But she was not proud now; no, she was more low and depressed than she'd ever been in her life. There was nearly no kind of person she detested more than an intelligent, well-educated woman who was so helplessly weak-minded that she would not allow herself to realize her potential or even go about her life without the man of her choice at her side! Disgusting! Disgraceful! Utterly LOATHSOME!!  
  
Hermione closed her eyelids painfully, and her lips trembled in their effort to keep in the pitiable sobs that she had so long been withholding from herself. She flung an arm over her face, attempting to physically shield herself from a mental battle that she just didn't know how to fight. She felt as if she were a small child sick with a fever, head burning and body aching with the disquieting pain of a malady that they neither wanted nor understood.   
  
With another shuddering sigh, Hermione regained control over her turbulent emotions and her expression became placid once more. Suddenly feeling cold, she slowly curled up her dangling limbs and turned to lie on one side, her position reminiscent of that in the womb. Though she knew it would not encourage the sleep she so needed, she slid her eyelids closed.  
  
The night had snuck up on her quickly, the darkness that came with it approaching with even more alacrity, and if she were to put a hand before her face, she would barely be able to make out its outline. But her body remained completely still, and so quiet that one might have thought her asleep but for the occasional lamentable yet conscious moan she let pass through her lips every few moments.  
  
"Why did you have to do this to me?....Did I do something wrong?....Oh, why do you hate me so much?...."  
  
~*~  
  
"D-Donna! W-what are you d..doing?" Severus panted, a desperate edge to his voice that was rarely heard by anyone. Belladonna smiled to herself in exultation. She looked up at Severus in mock-innocence, but then sabotaged her facade by dragging her dark pink tongue across her lips wantonly. Severus tried to scoff at her derisively, but the short laugh came out as a breathy gasp despite his efforts to control himself (which were admittedly lax this evening; he hadn't let go of himself in so long).  
  
"Y-you are the w-worst flirt!" he chided her between breaths, stubbornly fighting to hold his body still. Somehow, as their lust for each other escalated, Severus found himself thrust down on the edge of the bed, his jacket ripped off and flung to the ground, his stiff white shirt all the way unbuttoned so his thin yet defined torso was naked down the center. Once Belladonna caught sight of that gleaming white flesh that she'd missed so much, she fairly pounced on him in her ardor to claim it once again.   
  
Though he was a bit taken aback by her overzealous attentions, he was not displeased by them. On the contrary, he was nearly overwhelmed with excitement. Belladonna had totally taken control of him, was possessing him, and he wanted nothing more than to give himself to her completely. To just relinquish control over himself and give it all to her, let her have him. But that relentless ambition, that ruthless drive in him, out of which was born all of his intelligence and his need for power, refused to give him up. It was not a difficult decision to make, merely an unquestionable reality, and he neither disputed it nor was saddened by it.   
  
So he made a fairly decent show of fighting her for control, but he really wanted her to win, if only for this round and only in this setting.  
  
"Oh, Severus," Belladonna purred, causing him to shudder involuntarily. "You couldn't possibly know how much I've missed you, how many men I wished were you. I've got to have you. Please." With her well-practiced and nimble hands, she managed to slide his belt off of him without his noticing (to his credit, he was quite distracted at the moment); but he was alerted to her intentions when she stealthily undid his pants and slid her fingers inside them.  
  
"Donna, p-please," Severus protested, beginning to squirm like a child. It wasn't that he was unused to...receiving oral gratification, or that he didn't enjoy it; it was, again, merely the lack of control that he wasn't sure how to deal with. He hadn't been this submissive since he was a teenager and was just embarking on his sexual career.   
  
Belladonna could sense all of this and found it endearing as well as enticing. She shushed his protests by kissing him firmly on the mouth, all the while lowering his pants down his thighs with her hands. She took a moment to just admire them, for Severus had a long pair of some of the most gorgeous legs she'd ever seen on a man. They were like a dancer's, smooth and shapely yet firm and slim. As she ran her hands up the sides of his thighs, Severus emitted the most deliciously strained whimpers.  
  
She was pleased to find that no undergarments of any kind hindered her progress. Severus had been without them in all of their sexual dealings together (unless, of course, they were to be part of the ritual, in which case they were not the kind of shorts one would wear for any other purpose—he could be unexpectedly kinky when the mood struck him), which was not unusual to her, as many adult wizards did the same.   
  
It seemed to Belladonna that Severus was still trying to resist her, the obstinate git. She would have to make such foolishness more difficult for him to keep up, if not impossible.   
  
"Now s-slow down a s-second, Donna. I really must protest. S-stop it, Donna. I insist that you c-cease! NOW SEE HERE, BELLADO--ooohhhhh....".   
  
Belladonna would've laughed if her mouth weren't already full. If there was one way to get Severus Snape to shut up mid-tirade, this was it. He had totally relaxed his body into her ministrations, allowing his head to fall back against his shoulder and his spine to curve in relief. He put her in mind of a cat being stroked behind its ears. In fact, his soft moans were beginning to sound like low 'meows'.   
  
~*~  
  
"Crookshanks, what's all this meowing about?" Hermione mumbled through her hair, which, for some reason, was matted all over her face. Extremely disoriented, she rose to sit on her bed and stretch out her aching muscles. After a moment of putting two and a few together, she realized with some amazement that she had actually fallen asleep. She hadn't slept in quite a long time, and she felt very dizzy as she rubbed her eyes and felt around her night table for the switch on the small lamp that sat atop it. She was still in her day clothing, which was now quite rumpled, and it had been her familiar who had rather rudely awakened her with his hungry yowls. It was eleven thirty at night and, as they were both usually nocturnal creatures, around the time that Hermione threw a kitty treat or two to Crookshanks. He was now sitting expectantly beside her bed, staring up at her intently. He let loose another piteous 'nyaaaaaaoooooww' when she found him with her eyes.  
  
"Horrible cat," she muttered affectionately at the large, fluffy orange tabeazle (a moniker she had invented for him, as he was half tabby and half neazle). "I don't know why I put up with the likes of you."  
  
But she reached into her drawer, opened the plastic bag and tossed several of the fishy-smelling cookies onto the floor for him anyway. They were quickly set upon and devoured by Crookshanks, who didn't even bother to favor her with a thankful glance. She scowled at him, but he either did not notice or chose to ignore her.  
  
"Now, however did I manage to fall asleep?" she pondered aloud to herself. "Let's see, the last thing I remember doing was...reading. I was reading 'Rise and Fall of the Byzantine Empire'....No, wait, I'd finished that. I was...I suppose I was...".   
  
Her eyes suddenly became alight with remembrance, her lips quivering before thinning into a tense line.  
  
"Oh, right," she whispered as if in a daze. "I was thinking about *him*." Now that she'd discovered the subject of the thought pattern that had preceded her unexpected slumber, she forced her mind to replay each image in exactitude, though many speeds faster than they had originally been conceived. Such mechanical mental precision was a talent of hers, or so it had been deemed. Certain words or phrases that had come with the thoughts returned to echo in her mind spontaneously.  
  
'Professor, why do you hate me so much?...What can I do to make it up?...I'll do anything...'Anything?'...'. And there her recollections crashed to a halt, which jarred her body as well as her mind. The things that she had allowed to pass before her mind's eye between herself and her Professor—her *Professor*, for gods' sake!—were perverse, immoral. She had never had such thoughts before, wanted such...disgusting things. It was frightening.  
  
"Oh, I don't know what I want," she murmured softly, emotion causing her small voice to quaver. She turned off her lamp and curled herself up as small as she could on her pillow. She felt very small, and very weak. And most of all, very confused. "Oh, Crooks, what'll I do?"  
  
Her voice broke with a sob, and though she slapped her hand over her face she could not stop the insistent tears from seeping through her fingers. They were coming in waves, as if to make up for the thousands she had never allowed herself to shed. Her small frame shook violently with the sobs she'd kept locked up within her for years. Hermione was finally crying. But instead of feeling relieved, she was afraid, because she didn't even know how to cry, and she felt like she was going to literally fall apart.  
  
Fearing for his friend's sanity, Crookshanks climbed up onto the bed and ambled over to lie down on the pillow over Hermione's head. He was not a 'lap cat', nor could he ever be called cuddly, but in his friend's hour of need he put his own dislikes aside and laid his head down on top of hers in an attempt to show her that she was not alone as she wept.  
  
"T-thank you, Crooks," she managed to squeak out. "I'm sorry, I can't seem to help it. ...Oh, will he ever stop torturing me?!"  
  
~*~  
  
"Belladonna..don't torture me," Severus hissed. Any other man would have been begging these words, but they sounded like an order from his mouth. He snaked out a hand and, ever so softly, brought it to rest against the back of her head. His long fingers coiled delicately around her hair.  
  
Belladonna smiled to herself; she knew he wouldn't be at her mercy for long. She had expected and even anticipated it. Severus Snape wielded more control in his powerful being than any other person she had ever known. He could use it in a passive way to get what he wanted; making his victims think that they were the master when, in truth, they were in charge only because he wanted them to be. And at his worst, he could bring a person to their knees to cower at his feet as they would before a god. He was his own god, and Belladonna worshiped him for it. There were those that reviled him for it, but were drawn to him all the same. That was his power, that was his beauty. He was a predator of the human soul, and could never seem to get enough of it. He likely never would.  
  
A jolt of raw excitement coursed through Belladonna's body. Already, Severus' eyes were glinting dangerously. It would not be long now, and she waited calmly for him to take her over.   
  
She got her wish when, quick as Cruciatus, Severus tightened his grip on her hair, rose from the bed and wrenched her head back harshly. She moaned in pain, but also in pleasure, and he could already taste both in the air. His lips curled upwards in a vicious facsimile of a smile, his teeth glinting in the pale moonlight that shone in through the window. The candles had long since burned out.  
  
"Miss LaBeau," he purred threateningly. "Did I say that you could stop?"  
  
Belladonna felt the familiar icy fingers of fear grip her heart and squeeze it tight; but it clenched her loins even tighter, and, as always, arousal won out over apprehension. Her eyes rolled back into her head, long black eyelashes fluttering wildly, as a moan heavy with desire escaped her lips. Severus shuddered, power-lust almost claiming him. But he would not let it overcome him. Not with her. His fingers coiled more tightly around her hair, dragging her upwards so she was on her knees.  
  
"ANSWER me!" he commanded harshly. "Did I give you permission to stop? DID I?!"  
  
"N-no, Severus," she breathed, her chest heaving erratically with heavy, breathy pants. She cried out again, that dulcet-toned voice like a perfectly tuned bell to Severus' sensitive ears. Becoming more erotically charged by the minute, he released his grip on her hair, his fingers fairly shaking with need. But he swiftly steeled himself and brought both of his hands together before her face. Intertwining his fingers, he cracked his knuckles sharply, the sound of which echoed ominously throughout the room. He grinned sadistically as her eyes widened.   
  
But his leer faded fast and his eyes grew distant as an idea struck him, one that he hadn't entertained in quite some time. It was a poisonous desire, venomous as any of his fatal potions. But in his heightened arousal--primal stimulation that he had denied himself for far too long--he chose to ignore its consequences and relish in his own wicked perversity.  
  
His eyes narrowed determinedly as they refocused on the woman at his feet, but whether he truly saw her, she could not tell. Suddenly, he gripped her head in his hands, one on either side of her face, and forced it up to look at him. She could almost see the strength radiating in vaporous waves from his body, and was intoxicated by it, more so than she could ever be by any chemical.  
  
"Call me by my proper title, wench!" he growled at her through his teeth in deadly tones. Slightly confused, her eyes flickered. So he wanted to play a game tonight. That was just fine, just fine indeed. But which one? They had engaged in so many. ...And she knew that if she got it wrong, her punishment would not be pleasant, even by her standards.  
  
"M..Master?" she tried timidly. She gulped down air in trepidation as his eyes darkened, his hands sliding limply from her face. No. That was not what he wanted to hear.  
  
"Master?" His voice seemed to come out of the air, as if it were disembodied from his person, so lifeless did it sound. So terrifying.   
  
He remained completely still for a moment, as if he were a breathing statue. After what had seemed to Belladonna an eternity of silence, he slowly raised one hand until it was level with his eyes. Fixing them upon it with a loving gaze, he took a moment to tenderly caress his own cheek, then turned his wrist so its back rested against his face. His cold eyes found hers again, and he smiled at her. She held her breath.  
  
Then he cut the hand across the air so swiftly that its sound was audible and backhanded Belladonna mercilessly across her face. A resounding 'crack' bounced off the walls, and she fell to the floor in pain, clutching her now livid cheek. He saw her fall as if in slow motion, her wild, flaming hair fanning out about her body as it plummeted gracefully to the floor, her clothing wisping about her as if it were the wind itself. Her plaintive cry hit his ears as a cacophony of the most divine, dissonant music. He closed his eyes to keep from weeping at the helplessly human beauty of her.  
  
But though tears slid down Belladonna's cheeks, they were caused by the sting of the blow alone. For as Severus searched her eyes for pain or fear, he found neither therein. In fact, she grinned up at him unabashedly as she caught his stare, her own eyes turning devilish as she licked the teardrops off her face with her tongue and swallowed them. The audacious action went straight to Severus' libido, which was fully strengthened as he advanced on her with a nefarious smirk.  
  
Upon reaching her prostrate form, he grabbed her skirt and ripped it from her legs, spreading them callously before straddling her writhing hips with his own. Convulsing with need and gasping with desire, she reached for him blindly with eager hands. But he rebuked her passion and grasped her wrists, wrapping his long fingers around them so tightly that they nearly met twice, and pinned her arms to the floor. Once he was sure that her eyes were riveted upon his, he deigned to speak to her.  
  
"Belladonna," he mocked her with her own name. She moaned as if in pain. He ignored her, leaning closer to whisper cruelly in her ear. "I want you to call out my designation while I fuck you senseless. I want you to scream it with your every breath until you pass out. Do you understand me?"  
  
She was nearly delirious with lust, and was attempting to raise her hips to meet his, but he continued to withhold himself from her, offering her no relief until he was ready to receive it himself.   
  
"DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, GIRL?!"  
  
"Uh...Y-yes. W..whatever you w-want. Just..please...". Belladonna was genuinely crying now, and he decided it was time to give her what she deserved. She had certainly earned it.  
  
"Call...me...," he said as he drew closer to her and placed himself at her entrance. She sobbed and wrapped her legs around his slim waist. As he drove into her at last, he called out the word: "PROFESSOR!"  
  
~*~  
  
"Professor, I hate you," Hermione was saying over and over to herself, like a mantra. She intended to intone it until it was ingrained into her mind. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you...".   
  
She was still lying curled into herself on her bed with Crookshanks long asleep on her pillow. Though it was too dark to read the clock, she knew that the hour was one of the first few of the new day. She had long since been able to tell the time by the amount of light that shone outside; right now the moon was at its zenith in the sky, bathing everything in the room with a tranquil, silvery light.  
  
When her sobs had eventually quieted, she had changed into her pyjamas, crawled under her covers and made a half-hearted attempt at returning to sleep. Of course, it had failed. No; more correctly, it was succeeding, but her mind had begun to dredge up new traitorous thoughts about Snape, but just before she fell into the abyss of slumber and forced herself back to alertness. She could have murdered herself when she realized she was doing it *again*, no matter that it was unconsciously.   
  
She was too tired to study or read, so she grabbed her walkman from her desk, shoved the headphones onto her ears and endeavored to drown out the hateful thoughts with loud music. She paid no heed to the lyrics of the songs, and even less to who was actually singing them. It was the raw, angry sound of the music that she needed, and she floated away on the cacophony as one would when listening to a heavenly symphony.  
  
"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you...Oh, how I hate you...".  
  
~*~  
  
"Oh, gods..Professor," Belladonna exhaled in exhaustion, finally sated. "That was just the lesson I needed."  
  
Severus, quite worn out himself, was laying draped over his friend's body in a sweaty, breathless heap. When he opened his eyes, it was as if he were seeing the room for the first time since he'd entered it. With each silent breath of air he inhaled, he became more grounded in himself.   
  
To hear Belladonna call him by his teacher's title was rather startling, and he had to retrace the thoughts he'd entertained while he was in that heated frenzy. Shamefully, he squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he had just left them be in the darker recesses of his psyche.  
  
'Oh, gods...How *could* I?' He mentally condemned himself. 'I feel so disgusting...'.  
  
"Thank you so much, Professor," Belladonna breathed in his ear. He cringed.  
  
"Donna," he said softly, in an entirely different tone than he had previously used with her. "Please don't call me that." She looked down at him curiously, a trace of bemusement crinkling the corners of her eyes.  
  
"But, love, you asked me to."   
  
"I know, but...please don't." Severus whispered the last words hoarsely, nearly too sickened with himself to speak.   
  
Belladonna smiled sadly to herself. She didn't understand why Severus would become so distraught after he'd been either particularly cruel to her or acted out one of his more deviant fantasies after sex. To her, sex was an enjoyable way to release certain bodily and mental tensions, and anything that happened during it was just the mind purging its 'evils', as society deemed them. But they were not so to her, and she wondered why an intelligent and free-thinking man like Severus would be so hindered by them.   
  
She sat up halfway, resting the weight of her torso on an elbow, reaching out with the opposite hand to tenderly stroke Severus' damp hair in an almost motherly fashion. He sighed and seemed to relax a bit under her touch, snuggling his rawboned body closer into her soft one. After several moments of contented silence, Severus suddenly tensed and rose up on his hands to look with concern into Belladonna's face, moving his eyes about it as if he were touching her with them. She started, surprised at his sudden movement, but smiled at him and raised her eyebrows in question. He put a trembling hand to the cheek that he had earlier cuffed, which was still a bit red. Afraid to aggravate the injury further, his hand wafted a centimeter from her skin, only the cool fingertips grazing it gently.  
  
"I didn't...I didn't hurt you too badly, did I, Donna?" His low voice was lined with a sincere worry that touched Belladonna deeply, and to assure him that she was unhurt, she pressed her cheek into his large palm.   
  
"No, Severus," she assured him, her voice low with affection. "You could never really hurt me. Ever."  
  
They stared into each other's eyes, their bodies so silent and motionless it felt as if they were the orbs themselves. But after a very long moment, the intimate seriousness of their gaze became apparent to the two friends, and rather absurd. As if they were mocking a 'real' romantic partnership.   
  
Being a unique pair of people, they began to find the situation humorous, and their lips quivered with the effort to hold in their laughter. When they saw that the other's eyes also gleamed with mirth, they allowed it to bubble forth in unrestrained gushes of hilarity.   
  
"Oh, my love," Severus sputtered between guffaws, grabbing Belladonna's shoulders—which were quaking with giggles—and gazing into her eyes like a lovesick teenager from a muggle movie. He was aware that this merriment was replacing his mortification at his earlier actions, but chose to go with it instead, such was his relief at ridding himself of that particular horror. At least for the time being.  
  
"Sevi darling!" Belladonna returned, equally melodramatic. They clasped each other in a warm embrace as their laughter dwindled and eventually ceased, save for a short chuckle here and there. Severus moved to lean his back against the wall, pulling Belladonna along with him so she was resting against his chest.   
  
"Aren't we a pair?" She joked. "There's an absolutely splendid bed over there, and here we are squeezed up against the wall." Severus laughed softly, a rich, pleasant sound.  
  
"Yes," he acceded wryly, then sighing. "But I can't be bothered to get up." Belladonna snickered in agreement. She exhaled sharply, looking up at Severus with a playful grin.  
  
"Severus Snape." She said his name clearly and with a touch of pride, a tone that revealed to him that she held a special place for him in her heart, and always would. He smiled down at her adoringly, the expression completely relaxing his face and lending it a youthful quality.  
  
"Belladonna LaBeau," he answered in kind. Then he cocked his head to the side and frowned thoughtfully, as if pondering something important.  
  
"What?" she asked him, frowning as well. His eyes shot to hers, a mischievous gleam lightening their severity.  
  
"I've been wondering...," he paused for effect, causing her to grow impatient.   
  
"Yes?"  
  
"...Just what *is* your real name, anyway?"   
  
She scoffed at him and turned away, crossing her arms over her chest and pursing her lips. But he could see the sheepish smile that threatened to break through her childish pout. He took her chin in his fingers and carefully turned her head to face his, then raising his eyebrows in a look that seemed to implore, 'please?' She sighed in defeat and turned away, muttering something under her breath.  
  
"I'm sorry, what was that?" he goaded. She rolled her eyes. The answer she then gave him caused him to throw back his head and laugh even more loudly than he had before, which, in turn, caused her to begin slapping his chest in frustration. They eventually wore themselves out, what with all the howling and hitting, and dragged their tired bodies to the bed, presently falling asleep entwined in each other's arms.  
  
But the unlikely name became something of a private joke between the friends, and he eventually came to call her by it when they were alone, as they were then. After a time, she came not to mind his use of it.  
  
"...It's Betty Liebowitcz." 


	11. The Exchange of Smiles and Senses

A/N: Though I have already put in a disclaimer in my default chapter (which has unfortunately been eradicated by the oh-so-kind and liberal people that run ff.net, if that is the site where you are currently reading this), and I wrote it to count for the entire length of my fic, I will say here and now that some of the dialogue and description in this chapter was directly lifted from 'Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets', by (duh:P) J.K. Rowling. Ok, now that I've gotten that over with, enjoy the story!!^_^ And PLEASE review it when you're finished reading, as it considerably hastens the writing of further chapters.  
  
~SSS  
  
Beneath the Surface  
  
Chapter the Tenthe: The Exchanging of Smiles and Senses  
  
It was a gloriously sunny day, the azure sky punctuated here and there by white fluffy clouds that reminded the muggle children of cotton candy. Though the ecstatic yellow sun beat down mercilessly upon its worshipers, its intensity was dulled by the constant blowing of a gentle summer breeze that playfully rippled the warm green grasses and lovingly caressed the graceful arms of every tree that stood in its path. The birds were serenading all of nature with delirious love songs, and every kind and color of flower shot high out of the ground with exultant audacity. This was the type of day a romantic poet dreamed of; God's own picture of idyll.  
  
It was making Hermione sick.   
  
It was as if the world itself were mocking her misery. Such gaiety! Such beauty! Such SUNSHINE!!  
  
Revolting, perfectly and utterly. Here she was, at the very threshold of Hogwarts, her beloved sanctuary, on the most heavenly day even she could conjure up, and she was more terrified than she'd ever been in all of her life. It was all she could do to quell her body's shaking. After two whole months of dreading this day, it had finally crept upon her, and so stealthily that it was as if it were only yesterday that she had been here last. Only yesterday since she'd last seen *him*, and they'd had that awful argument.   
  
No, that wasn't right....SHE'D had that awful argument. He'd merely set off the bomb and then watched as it exploded, as he surely knew that it would.   
  
Hermione's entire holiday had been a blur of texts, loneliness and fear. The latter of and inspired by one person: Severus Snape, a man who she would be forced to see nearly every day of her life for the next..six..years.   
  
'Oh, good gods, help me,' she mentally implored. Her duress was such that it influenced her every movement, and she had never been a person that one would call guileful.  
  
Why, even Harry and Ron would be able to detect that there was something bothering her! ...That is, they would if they were actually *present*.  
  
Hermione would have been quite worried about her friends by now—having not met them on the Hogwarts Express as they had planned and seeing no sign of them upon arriving at the school—had she not been so preoccupied with her dread of seeing and then dealing with Professor Snape. As it was, nearly all the concern she might have felt for the two truant boys was completely obscured by vexation that they were not here for her when she actually needed the distraction their energetic banter provided.   
  
At the moment, she was being jostled and pushed about by the crowd of her fellow students, who were traipsing eagerly towards the magical castle which housed their futures within its capacious stone walls. Ignored by all of the excited children, Hermione glared at the great wooden doors before them, her lips set in a resentful line. One nostril quirked erratically, as it tended to do when she was holding in her fury. If anyone had bothered to look, they would notice that her scowl could rival that of Snape's any day. She was positively livid.   
  
Though she missed them, she wouldn't dare tell Harry and Ron the real reason she was so uneasy even if they had noticed her discomposure and asked her about it. As she thought on it further, she found that she resented what she perceived as their callous behavior towards her personal life and problems. Given, she did nothing to reveal herself as a deeply sensitive person, and she knew that Harry and Ron could be fairly...well, thick, when it came to sensing and interpreting others' emotions. Still, she was sure that if they knew how much their dismissive remarks and pigeonholing hurt her feelings, they wouldn't behave that way towards her.   
  
Ron and Harry were most certainly not cruel people, that much was certain. Yet she still could not get up the courage to say these things to them straight out; she just did not know how. Any interaction with other people touched her profoundly (in many different spectrums of feeling), but she knew not how to communicate such to them. She lacked the training for it.  
  
But she did not dwell on these dampening thoughts for too long. The many people surrounding her had finally stopped moving and their shouts and laughter had died down considerably; they had finally reached their collective destination and were about to be let into the school. Hermione again thought of one who, knowingly or not, awaited her return from within its depths.  
  
As the majestic doors that led into the heart of Hogwarts were being slowly pushed open ahead of them, Hermione's own heart fluttered with the force of the hope that had been bubbling inside of it all summer.  
  
~*~  
  
"Severus?...Severus!...Severus, my boy, WAKE UP!"   
  
Snape had been abruptly torn from his blessed (and so rare) slumber by a pair of soft yet insistent hands prodding at his angular shoulders. Disoriented, he rose on his elbows and groggily surveyed his surroundings. He was not in the House of Mirth, or any less respectable place of disrepute in which he'd wasted away the tedious hours of his holidays, as he'd thought.   
  
No, he was in his own dungeons; their familiar musty yet aseptic scent and permanently dry, chilly atmosphere despite the warm weather outside were comforting to him. But there was something nagging at his mind, pricking at his newfound awareness as if to taunt him with his own forgetfulness. He rubbed his eyes wearily with his fists, then sat fully up to discover the identity of the one who had rather rudely awoken him.   
  
Albus Dumbledore's bright blue eyes shined down on him in the most infuriatingly bemused manner, like an adoring father would upon his willful child. But Severus was *not* a child (he never really had been), and took offense at being treated like one, whether that was the old man's intention or not.   
  
Snape scowled up at Dumbledore as if he were an unwanted intruder (which, in truth, he was at the moment), and crossed his arms over his naked chest. Once skin met skin, Severus' eyes widened before darting down to check whether or not his lower half was also on display. He just stopped himself from exhaling audibly in relief when he saw that the thin bed sheets were securely swathed around his hips, obscuring from view anything that lay beneath them.   
  
Though he was embarrassed at being seen by a fellow faculty member—his employer, at that—in such a state of deshabille, he stubbornly refused to reveal such to Albus, merely clasping his arms tighter across his chest and hunching over just slightly as he continued to glower up at the Headmaster, who had the audacity to chuckle warmly at him. Severus' eyes narrowed further.  
  
"Severus, what are you still doing in bed?" Dumbledore inquired buoyantly.   
  
"Well, Albus, I *was* sleeping, as I would hope you'd realized," Severus growled, then tilted his sharp chin up at Dumbledore. "Now, is there something I can do for you? If not, I will ask you to kindly leave me to my privacy, or what's left of it after this...rather awkward impromptu visitation." To Snape's further chagrin, Dumbledore chortled good-naturedly once again.  
  
"I hope you'll forgive me, but I simply cannot do that," he started, voice suffused with ill-disguised drollery. Severus was now so aggravated that he could only bring himself to raise a tense eyebrow high in question, not trusting himself to speak with even remote politeness. "You see, today is the first of September."  
  
"...Yes?" Severus prompted impatiently, evidently oblivious of the date's significance.  
  
"...The first day of school?" Albus reminded him, almost disbelieving that he could actually forget such an important day. He knew how Severus liked to arrive at the Sorting early so as to impress unequivocally upon each First Year who entered the building that he was a man not to be crossed by any means. He always succeeded in that endeavor, Dumbledore had to concede.  
  
Severus' mouth dropped open in abject horror upon hearing Albus' words. In truth, he hadn't forgotten what the date signified; he was only unaware what month or day it was, as he'd failed to keep track of time all summer.   
  
Glancing at an old clock perched high on his wall, he found that he had only ten minutes to prepare himself for the Sorting. With a strangled gasp, he immediately made to leap from his bed and get his clothing on, but then halted abruptly with one foot on the cold, stone floor and the other tangled in his bedding as he remembered that he had a 'guest'.   
  
Severus grabbed his sheet from the bed and wrapped it roughly around himself, nearly falling to the floor in the process because his left foot was still twisted up in the blanket. With as much dignity as he could muster, Severus extricated his leg from the sheet, drew up and swivelled to face Albus with an aloof expression schooled onto his distinct features. All that belied his air of forced calm were the white-knuckled hands that clutched the sheet tightly about his willowy frame.  
  
"Albus, if you don't mind, I'd like to dress alone," he challenged airily, then arching one eyebrow. "Unless you're in the mood for a show, in which case I'd have to charge you for services rendered."   
  
Albus looked startled for a moment but nodded to him obligingly, that small smile never leaving his face as he turned and moved to exit the dungeons. It was all Severus could do to keep still while the man made his slow departure. Just before he closed the door behind him, Dumbledore hesitated, but did not turn around.  
  
"Oh, and Severus?" he asked softly, not waiting for Snape's reply to continue. "I wouldn't have figured you to possess bed sheets of such a vivid shade."  
  
Severus knew where this was going, and shut his eyes in resigned readiness, massaging his right temple with the spidery fingers of one hand.  
  
"It makes me wonder why you don't wear such colors during the day. I must say, violet becomes you," Dumbledore finished anticlimactically before swiftly securing the door behind him and scurrying off. Severus was fairly seething, this particular brand of mocking flattery having caught him off guard.  
  
"Must you always have the last word?!" He shouted at the door from which Albus had left, but knew that the old man was long gone now. Most likely giggling to himself all the way to the Great Hall.  
  
"Bloody hell, that blasted ceremony comes upon me more quickly every year," Severus muttered to himself in irritation.  
  
He unwrapped the purple sheet from his body and tossed it over the bed before valiantly attempting to complete his morning ritual of grooming and dressing in record time.  
  
~*~  
  
As soon as all the students had arrived in the Entrance Hall they were met by the Head of Gryffindor House, Professor Mcgonagall, who quickly quieted and ushered them into the Great Hall, then going to arrange the new First Years before the Head Table to await their Sorting. Hermione had taken her seat in the place where she usually sat across from Harry and Ron at the center of Gryffindor Table.  
  
Others in their year resumed their places at the Table as well, cheerfully exchanging boisterous greetings to one another and trading personal accounts of the holidays. Hermione, save for a friendly yet brief 'hullo' to and from those around her, was for the most part ignored by her peers. Which suited her just fine, as she was rather preoccupied herself.  
  
Though she had, after much difficult deliberation, resolved to altogether snub her Potions Professor unless they were in an academic setting, Hermione found herself scanning the Head Table for him with her eyes immediately after being seated.   
  
Her stomach tensed into a worrisome knot which caused a wave of hot anxiety to wash over her senses when she couldn't find him. He was not in his regular place at the far end of the Table, nor was he occupying any other seat. Despite herself, she craned her neck around the Great Hall, searching desperately for some sign of him. But to her dismay, she found no familiar shock of tousled ebony hair, no telltale sweeping of long black robes. Her brow furrowed in consternation.  
  
'Why isn't he here? He always comes on time. Where *is* he?!' Her mind raced in illogical apprehension. What if he had decided not to come back for some reason? What if something awful had happened to him? What if she never saw him again? How was she going to function without his presence in her life? She had focused on him for so long that even the disquiet his person brought to her thoughts had become welcome to her.  
  
But before Hermione could noticeably go into a panic, her terror was swept from her mind like storm clouds rolling from a sunny sky. A tremor of relief quivered from her head to her toes, cooling and relaxing her tense body. She slumped back into her seat, feeling suddenly tired but blissfully untroubled.  
  
'There he is,' she sighed mentally, unmindful of the subtle smile that graced her lips as she watched him.   
  
The teacher's door at the head of the Hall had been unceremoniously thrown open, banging dully against the wall as Professor Snape swept through it purposefully and without apology. His stride was brisk and his glare menacing, but he kept his eyes straight ahead as he made his way to his seat, as if all of those in the Hall were beneath his notice. Only those who knew him well understood that the reason he looked especially forbidding this morning was because he was ashamed at his lateness and so was overcompensating for it in overall nastiness. His journey to his seat was smooth and graceful despite his obviously hurried demeanor. For some reason unknown to those looking on, he bestowed an unusually spiteful sneer on Headmaster Dumbledore as he passed him.  
  
'Damn Albus....If it weren't for him and his meddling, I would never have been...,' Severus' sulking thought process trailed off as he remembered that if it *weren't* for Dumbledore's visit this morning, he would probably still be asleep. No matter how much he may dislike his occupation, he was not one to shirk responsibilities once they'd been placed upon him. And punctuality was among the very least of the things he owed to the old fool, for reasons he'd rather not reminisce about.   
  
'Just....Damn Albus,' he continued to brood mulishly, despite his earlier deduced logic. He was not a man without his...considerable pride.   
  
The eyes of many of Hogwarts' students and those of all of the about-to-be First Years were trained on Snape unblinkingly, so fascinated were they by his mysterious magnetism and fearsome power. Poor Neville, who was seated next to Hermione, had begun to breathe audibly, but Hermione didn't turn from Snape as she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.  
  
'Well, well, well,' Severus mused. 'This batch of whelps seem even more terrified than last year's lot. Perhaps I should always make my first appearances last; seems to have a more dramatic affect on the little prats.'  
  
Finally deigning to survey his audience with a grim sneer, which caused a muted gasp to issue forth from various people throughout the Hall, Snape settled his loathsome gaze on the new First Years, appearing to quickly measure them up and then to promptly dismiss them from his favor. Before abandoning his public to scowl into space as per usual, he decided to offer them a malevolent grin, his lips curling upwards at the corners to reveal viciously pointed incisors.   
  
This time, Hermione had to turn to Neville and ask him if he was quite alright, for he had gone rigid and all the color had drained out of his face, leaving the normally ruddy-complected boy quite peaked indeed. But while she was assuring herself of his general health, she had to sneak a last glance up at Snape before going through with her plan to ignore him.   
  
She was ruffled, to say the least, when she caught his eye and found that he was fixated solely on her. He did not waver upon meeting her gaze, instead deepening his own seriously as her eyes flicked wildly from his face to the Hall around them in her foundering determination to drag them away from him.   
  
She should have known by now that such was impossible if *he* wished the opposite.  
  
'I'm very sorry, Hermione.' He tried to instill the words into her mind (a complex wizardly practice in which he was quite gifted), but it was inexperienced and not receptive to the intrusion. All she sensed from him was a spark of regret, of forthright apology emanating from him. She didn't know why, but it made her feel slighted by him. Underestimated.  
  
With a sudden glint of anger that she had thought long dissipated, Hermione's eyes locked onto his as her consciousness surged with unyielding animosity. Snape's eyelashes fairly fluttered from the unexpected intensity of it, but they stayed focused on hers all the same. Then, as if a curtain had been dropped before him, his stern features melted subtly into remorse, his eyes soft and seemingly supplicating. Hermione's fury faltered under it, her eyebrows rising in stupefaction.  
  
'What does he want of me now? I don't understand...'  
  
'Forgive me...'   
  
And then Snape's eyes lowered from hers like a closed shade, and he slowly turned away to regard some point far away in the hall. His face, its labyrinthine secrets once again locked from all, assumed a bored expression. After several moments of watching him (as she was sure Snape knew that she was), she too averted her gaze and bowed her head over the empty space of the table in front of her.   
  
'This is going to be a long year...' she thought to herself. But when she heard how pitiful her inner monologue was sounding, her notorious courage and resolve returned, and Hermione raised her head and straightened her posture, looking every bit the intelligent, mature young lady that she was. Her eyes had grown distant and steely, her lips firmly set.   
  
'But I'll be damned if I let HIM take it over!'  
  
"...Uh, Hermione?"  
  
It had just come to Hermione's attention that several of her fellow Gryffindor acquaintances desired to capture it. She faced them with a blank expression.  
  
"Yes, er... sorry to interrupt," Seamus continued, his expression concerned. "But the Sorting is over."  
  
"..."  
  
Hermione was at a loss for words. How many times had she reprimanded her peers for their daydreaming during school hours, and here she was doing the same thing herself? Inexcusable. She felt very... stupid.  
  
She forced out an uncertain laugh, regaining the use of her tongue. "What do you know. Well, we'd better get to the Common Room before the First Years do."  
  
Utterly humiliated, she quickly stood up and made to exit the Hall without looking back at the other Gryffindors, whose faces she knew held expressions of pity and confusion. Hefting her book bag onto her shoulders, Hermione walked somberly out of the Great Hall, her gait slow and her head down. She was one of the last to exit the immense chamber, awaiting patiently for the other students to hurry out of the doors before leaving herself.   
  
Unbeknownst to her, a pair of slitted black eyes regarded her small form from the back of the Hall.   
  
Professor Snape was standing frozen behind his seat like a pensive statue. This surprised the other professors, for he had always been the first of them to rush out of the Hall after a feast or ceremony, but they did not question his choice to remain behind for fear of his legendary reprisal.  
  
The formidable Potions Master of Hogwarts even had his fellow staff cowed.   
  
'Should I go after her? The little thing looks so forlorn...' he debated with himself. When Hermione finally disappeared through the doors of the Hall, he rolled his eyes, heaved an annoyed sigh and quickly stalked after her.  
  
'I made the mess, so now I must clean it up...'  
  
~*~  
  
Hermione was halfway down a long corridor adjacent to the Great Hall, her solitary figure engulfed by its immensity, when Snape got her in his sights. She hadn't heard him following her, and though his step was habitually silent, his voluminous robes were not as they billowed behind his hastening frame. When he came within ten or so feet of her, he decided to verbally make his presence known to the young girl who was so irritatingly ignorant of it.   
  
"Miss Granger," he called to her in a low, sibilant voice.   
  
Upon hearing it, she stopped dead in her tracks, her backpack striking her tense body from the force of her abrupt halt. Snape pursed his lips to keep himself from grinning. Though he was strangely unsure as to how to deal with this child—this child whom he'd so egregiously wronged at their last meeting—he continually found their exchanges amusing.   
  
'Oh, Merlin, what shall I do?' Hermione silently implored the ancient wizard, as if the deceased could help her when she herself was at a loss. The moment that she had both dreaded and desired in equal parts had come at last, but she was afraid to face her Professor and remained standing with her back to him irresolutely.  
  
Back at the Hall, when they had struggled to communicate with their eyes, she thought she'd finally conquered him, the control he unknowingly had over her emotions. She had been sad at the perceived loss, but confident that he'd lost his hold on her.  
  
But the shared gaze was nothing compared with his voice, which now flooded her senses with its silky depth and crept into her subconscious with its enigmatic undertones. She bit her lip, frustrated at the words that wouldn't come to her.  
  
Severus, for his part, had wholly misinterpreted her actions. He had deduced that the passage of time since their altercation had in no way diminished her rancor towards him, and that she was standing still with her back to him only because she didn't trust herself to speak or even to look at him without the aid of hexes.   
  
He sighed resignedly and crossed his arms loosely over his stomach, as he always did when preparing to say something uncomfortably meaningful. Slowly, he stepped closer to the girl, veering towards the wall behind and to the left of her (he wouldn't tempt fate by addressing her head-on) and leaned his back and shoulders leisurely against it. His relaxed posture belied his inner agitation.  
  
Hermione sensed his proximity and stiffened further, shivering at the discomfort it caused her already rigid body. Snape again took this action for revulsion.   
  
He was not personally hurt by what he perceived to be her feelings towards him, merely saddened that he had caused them. He had learned long ago to live by his wits and to bend others to his will through the manipulation of emotions, and he was now so accustomed to feigning them that he wouldn't recognize the real thing, were it to hit him. He sighed again.   
  
'I must be getting soft in my old age...'  
  
'I wish he would just say something. I can't stand this utter silence, and I can't make myself speak!' Hermione's mind buzzed hysterically.  
  
"Miss Granger," he finally said again. Her ears visibly pricked up, her heart skipping a beat. "I'm not going to mince words with you. I know what you're so... distraught over."  
  
Hermione's eyes grew as large as saucers. She was very thankful that he couldn't see them.   
  
'He KNOWS?!'  
  
"In fact, I must admit that the same has crossed my mind on..." he gestured searchingly with a hand. "Several occasions during the holidays. ...And that I have been likewise... distressed." He cleared his throat. Hermione nearly stopped breathing.  
  
"So I feel that it is my duty—my responsibility, to tell you that... Miss Granger, look at me when I'm talking to you. Please," he amended. "I can't say this to your back."  
  
Hermione was afraid of what she knew was coming, no matter how much she had secretly hoped for it. But she forced herself with stilted movements to turn and face him.   
  
When she did so, Snape was rather startled by her open, hopeful expression, but didn't allow such to appear on his face. The child had changed since last year. Only slightly, but noticeably so. She was still diminutive in stature, but appeared to have grown roughly an inch or so over the holidays. There was also something intangible, something burgeoning from within the girl. A tentative maturity, perhaps. Whatever it was, it seemed to be working from inside her mind to make her physical appearance more distinctive than it had been in her First Year. Memorable, in a peculiarly pleasing way.  
  
True, her hair was still unwieldy and too frizzy, her skin too pallid, her limbs too skinny, but... there was something about her face. It had become more fully-formed, more defined. It now seemed too big for her body. Too old. But there was something else.  
  
Something behind her eyes. A new spark, a developing fervor. Severus knew not what it could be, and he did not care to speculate, but this new phenomenon took him aback after having not seen the girl for so long. He rather... admired her, in some strange way.  
  
'I wonder if I'd feel this way if I had a daughter...'   
  
The wholly unfamiliar paternal feelings were upsetting, and he quickly pushed them back to the far corner of his mind from whence they came. For some reason, he was finding it difficult to hold the girl's gaze, but since he had asked her to look at him, he couldn't in all integrity deny her the same courtesy.   
  
'He's going to say it... I just know it,' a voice in Hermione's head whispered as if it were in the throes of a fever. 'His eyes already told me. Now he's going to *say* it...'  
  
"Miss Granger," Snape began to speak again. He drew up higher against the wall before continuing. "I need to tell you that..."  
  
'Yes? YES?'  
  
"That I'm... very sorry for blowing up at you the way I did at our last meeting."  
  
'...WHAT?!'   
  
"I...er..." Snape was not one to stutter, but the look she was giving him was making him uncomfortable. "It was inexcusable...yes...Miss Granger, are you quite all right?"  
  
The concerned look he was bestowing upon her only served to inflame her recovered ire. Yes, it was in quite good health now. Though, if she'd examined its cause more closely, she would likely have found that it stemmed more from her anger at thinking he could reciprocate her feelings than the apology he'd given her. Which, as she registered it, was quite kind...for a contemptuous bat in the belfry like him.   
  
Hermione's posture both relaxed and straightened at the same time, and she placed her hands lightly on her hips in a casual version of a defensive stance. Her eyes had gone cold, and a reptilian smile had spread her lips. That it was so out of place on her innocent face only served to make it appear more disturbing.   
  
"I'm perfectly fine, Professor Snape," Hermione said confidently. "But thank you for your... concern." The last word eked from her mouth falsely. Snape's lips curved upwards just slightly, but the worried frown remained plastered to his brow. Apparently, the child's voice had lowered in pitch just the tiniest bit. The smile slid from Snape's mouth.   
  
'What is amiss with this child? I've never seen such rapidly fluctuating pathos!'  
  
"I hope your holidays went well. Excuse me, but if that is all, I am going to be late getting back to Gryffindor Tower," she said with a touch of arrogance in her voice. The familiar disdainful sneer that came over Snape's face was an almost welcome sight.  
  
"Oh, yes," he intoned dangerously. He raised himself from his repose against the wall and advanced upon her until she was nearly backed up against the opposite one. "That is all I have to say to you. Except for this: you, Miss Granger, are the most immature, stubborn, ungrateful and impertinent *child* I have ever had the DISpleasure of instructing!" With each word the volume of his voice escalated, exploding in a snarl at the last syllable and echoing up and down the empty hallway.  
  
Her cheek had all but disintegrated with his spite, and she stared up at him with fear in her large eyes. He smiled down upon her in satisfaction, then immediately pivoted on his heel and strode off in the direction from which he'd come.   
  
Hermione's feet were glued to the floor, mouth still agape in shock and spine arching backwards as if Snape were still hovering mere inches from her.   
  
Snape was still smiling grimly to himself as he strolled almost jauntily through the corridor. After having put the disrespectful child in her place, he felt that he'd resolved his every issue with her person and could now completely dismiss her from his consciousness. All the loose ends were tied up. And when he got back to the dungeons, he could start on that potion he'd been meaning to—  
  
'Oh, BLOODY HELL!'  
  
He immediately turned round to speedily relocate the troublesome Miss Granger. All the loose ends were NOT tied up. Having stewed in his own guilt during various periods throughout the summer over the way he'd treated the girl, he'd completely forgotten that she was his Potions Assistant. Or had been. He'd have to see if she still wanted the responsibility *now*.   
  
A hand rose unconsciously to massage his right temple as he found the girl standing right where he'd left her, and in the same manner as well: petrified with fright. The guilt began to rise in his gullet again, but he squelched it down and focused on the more pressing matters at hand.   
  
Hermione fairly leapt out of her skin when she heard her name called out again in that unmistakable timbre. He was back. What did he want with her *now*? She felt as if her body was trying to retreat into itself under his penetrating stare.  
  
"Y-yes, Professor?" her vocal chords managed to squeak out.   
  
"Do you recall that you assisted me in some potions work last year?"  
  
This was unexpected.   
  
"Yes..." she affirmed somewhat suspiciously.  
  
"Good." He crossed his arms again and shifted a bit. He felt rather silly at present. He turned his head so he was looking off to the side.   
  
"You still want the job?" Snape asked her baldly and in a gruff, self-conscious tone she'd never heard him use. Hermione lowered her face, looking up at him incredulously from beneath raised brows. Was he... fidgeting?   
  
After a tense moment had passed, Snape snapped his head back in her direction, an expectant eyebrow raised over threatening eyes. Hermione straightened at once, trying to make her features appear placid despite her own uncomfortable squirming.   
  
He still wanted her? After that disgraceful display? Well, she wasn't going to ask questions *now*.  
  
"W-well, y-yes, sir," she stammered shyly. "You know, I actually h-hadn't thought of it all s-summer, and I'm very h-happy you still want me t-to..."  
  
"Good," he said again shortly. He just had to stop her before she made this awkward situation even more so for him; such seemed to be talent of hers. Another strained silence prevailed between them.   
  
Until Snape did something that completely caught Hermione off guard.  
  
Though he was still frowning at her, his lips began to tremble. At first she thought he was going to shout at her again, but instead his mouth spread into a small smile. His eyes gleamed with a sort of ironic amusement, as if to ask her, 'aren't human exchanges ridiculous?'   
  
As she had long been of the same opinion, she couldn't help but to return his smile with a broad grin of her own. He widened his own smile a bit at her agreement, and then opened his mouth as if he were about to say something to her. Judging by his almost tender expression, she assumed that whatever it was would be kind and profound.  
  
Unfortunately, she was never to know, for at that very moment they were interrupted by the abrupt and noisy pushing open and subsequent slamming of the oaken doors that lead into the Entrance Hall, followed by the sounds of labored breathing and a harried dialogue of boyish whispers floating towards them. If the respective tones of those whispers hadn't belonged unmistakably to Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, Professor Snape may have chosen to disregard them.   
  
"Hey—Harry—come and look—it's the Sorting!"  
  
"Hang on...there's an empty chair at the Staff Table...Where's Snape?"  
  
'Professor Snape, Harry!' Hermione insisted mentally. 'As if it anything could possibly save him now...'  
  
A sinister look came over Snape's previously benign features as he registered this unusual infraction, but his lips quirked upwards into a darkly delighted smile. Hermione knew that nothing she could say now would keep him from hurrying off to punish her best friends. And she was quite correct in her reasoning.   
  
Focusing on Hermione for a last split second, Snape nodded tersely before abandoning her in the hallway to apprehend his two favorite rule-breakers. As he swept past her still form, his rough, flowing robes grazed her cheek and arm. She pressed her eyelids closed so as to better savor the abrasive yet coveted contact.  
  
But her ears were uncovered and therefore open to distraction, so within them she caught snatches of the conversation which resulted between Snape and her friends when the former had overtaken the latter.   
  
"Maybe he's ill!"   
  
"Maybe he's left!"  
  
"Or he might've been *sacked*! I mean, everyone hates him—"  
  
Though she could sympathize with the current plight of her two good friends, she winced at that last statement. Though it was fairly impossible to tell whether or not Snape was hurt by overhearing such cruel things about his person, she still felt bad that such things were said at all.  
  
"Or maybe..." the Professor started coldly, and Hermione heard two high gasps emanate from down the corridor, "he's waiting to hear why you two didn't arrive on the school train."  
  
Hermione had to allow herself a chuckle at the way Snape could expertly pounce on his prey when the opportunity presented itself so well. Besides, she was too put out with her friends for their lateness to pity them just yet.  
  
"Follow me," Snape said, his tone brooking no argument. Only Hermione could detect the anticipation that hid behind his crisp command.  
  
'Well, they're done for,' Hermione decided wryly.   
  
There was simply nothing for it now; she may as well join the other Gryffindors in welcoming the newly initiated First Years at Gryffindor Tower (translation: she planned to sit in a far corner of the Common Room and do her best to ignore the noisy prattle while she got some studying in). Readjusting her books on her back, she continued on her way to the Tower.   
  
Almost immediately after resuming her trek, the bizarre exchange of just minutes ago with Professor Snape flashed through her mind at a dizzying speed, slowing only when she recalled the kinder things that he had said to her. Hermione let out an astounded breath as she heard Snape repeat in her mind that she was still his potions assistant. Now their continued interaction and proximity was all but guaranteed. She smiled unselfconsciously, the first true beam that had brightened her face since before summer had begun.   
  
... No, that wasn't quite correct. It was the second. 


	12. New Bonds and Old Barriers

Beneath the Surface  
  
Chapter the Eleventhe: New Bonds and Old Barriers  
  
"Honestly, *what* were you two thinking?" Hermione ranted as she paced back and forth in front of Harry and Ron, who appeared quite contrite as they sat slumped into two chairs on either side of the fireplace in the Gryffindor Common Room. Then she halted between them and threw up her hands in exasperation. "That's just IT! You WEREN'T thinking at all!"  
  
"Now, come off it, 'Mione, that's just a bit too much," Ron protested with indignity. "We've already gotten it badly enough from Snape without *you* laying into us as well!" Hermione rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest.  
  
"Now don't start on him again, I've heard quite enough. And it's not as if you didn't deserve it," she reprimanded him dryly. "You and Harry would've done better to just go straight up to Sna—*Professor* Snape and trip him with those blowing robes of his!"  
  
The humorous mental image caused the two boys to snicker behind their hands, and even Hermione had to allow a shade of a smile at it. After several minutes of bearing their chortling, it became obvious to Hermione that her accidental jest at Snape's expense would go on for some time unless she put a stop to it herself. She cleared her throat loudly, resuming an aggressive stance, and the two boys immediately stopped laughing and refocused on her.  
  
"I'm serious," she said evenly, fixing narrowed eyes on her friends. Each looked rather sheepish, but, as Hermione would come to know after another year or two of friendship with the boys, the indefatigable mischief of Harry and Ron could hardly be deterred by a detention or ten.   
  
"But Hermione," Harry pressed. "We've already explained to you why we had to take the car, and everything that happened after was sort of an...accident."  
  
"Yeah," Ron agreed, nodding eagerly. "Someone closed the portal on us. We had no choice!"  
  
"Oh, honestly!" Hermione sighed irritably. "You most definitely *did* have a choice! Why, if such a thing had happened to any sensible person, they would have known either to stay where they were until their parents returned or to figure out a way to contact someone who could help them. It's *that* simple!"  
  
Ron's mouth fell open and, by the belligerent expression on his face, Harry knew that he was going to argue with Hermione's admittedly impeccable yet undoubtably unattainable logic. Not wishing to continue this 'discussion' further, he placed a firm hand on Ron's shoulder and faced Hermione with a serious expression.  
  
"You're right, Hermione," he said, feigning contrition. "We weren't thinking, and we should have been more responsible." He shot Ron a meaningful look, which was returned after a moment's confused hesitation.   
  
"Yeah," Ron acceded, smiling lopsidedly at Hermione. "Guess we were a bit thick."  
  
"I guess so," Hermione scoffed sardonically, raising her arms to fold them across her chest once again. She happened to notice the red watchband peeking out from the sleeve of her left arm as she did so, and brought that wrist up to her eyes for closer inspection. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, and she spun on her heel and strode towards the stairway that led to the girls' dormitory.   
  
"It's late. Supper's in an hour. First classes are tomorrow," she explained concisely to her friends over her shoulder. "I've got to get a head start on some studying. See you in the Hall!"   
  
The small door slammed closed behind her and Harry and Ron could hear her sharp footsteps receding rapidly up the steps. The two boys shared a dubious glance, and then resumed recounting and guffawing about their close shave with the Womping Willow just that morning.   
  
~*~  
  
"Headmaster, *please*, at least agree that you'll *consider* expulsion," Snape fairly begged, a rare occurrence indeed. Still, Albus Dumbledore remained immoveable.  
  
"Severus, I'm sorry, but I just can't do something that drastic over a few minor infractions," he said, his tone soft yet final. Snape gaped at him, his expression contorted into one of pure indignation. He reminded Albus of the malcontent schoolboy he had once been, protesting the mischievous doings of the Marauders, a group of several close-knit Gryffindors which included Harry Potter's father. History was cyclical, indeed.  
  
"A FEW MINOR INFRACTIONS?! Have you gone completely *mad*, Albus?" Severus shouted angrily. Dumbledore put up two open hands in an attempt to placate the irate Professor, but it was to no avail. "The idiots could have been KILLED! And though I would personally welcome such a fate with open arms, I doubt that the entire wizarding world would when it comes the time for that prat Potter to fulfill that damnable prophecy!"  
  
Albus had finally reached his limit on how far he could tolerate Snape's temper. He would allow no one to mock such a serious destiny, nor to slander his students. He drew himself up and raised his chin, the power of his anger radiating from his ancient form. Severus, who was considerably taller than the old man, bowed his head and seemed to physically shrink beneath his ire. When the Headmaster spoke, his voice was clear and resonant.  
  
"Severus Snape, I have had quite enough of your childish prejudices against those innocent children." Snape's eyes blazed with a deep-seated flame, but he bit his tongue and remained still. "Now, I have made my decision in regards to Misters Potter and Weasley, and as Headmaster of this school, my judgement shall not be questioned."  
  
Then Dumbledore's wise old eyes softened, and his posture relaxed as he smiled tenderly at Snape, seeing the deeply troubled boy he had watched grow so very painfully into the honorable man who now stood before him. Severus sensed the gentle scrutiny, and raised his face to meet his Headmaster's kindly eyes.  
  
"Severus, my boy," Albus said in a low, fatherly tone, which Severus always did his best not to shudder at. He had never been accustomed to such sincere warmth and care directed towards him. "You know I mean you no offense. I do understand that you say such things out of concern for the children's welfare; I believe that you feel Harry would be more safe if he was removed from the wizarding world. "  
  
Snape snorted cynically, knowing that such was only part of the reason for his... overzealous behavior. His animosity towards the little dunderheads stemmed largely from dislike, pure and simple. It would be much easier on him if Potter were expunged from his world; the troublemaker was proving far too difficult to protect already, and he wasn't even a teenager yet. Dumbledore ignored him and continued on.  
  
"And I truly respect and admire you for your genuine dedication to the students' safety. But," he said in a slightly reprimanding tone, regarding Snape shrewdly from over his half-moon spectacles, "young Harry's destiny, and that of any other person, is beyond your right to manipulate, no matter how pure your intentions are in doing so. You simply must try harder to refrain from such insensitive cruelty towards the children. Can you agree to that, my boy?"  
  
Snape's lip was twisted in irritation, but their was a boyish penitence in his eyes which matched his somber tone as he said, "Yes, Headmaster, I'll try."  
  
"Good lad. Now, I'm sure you've many things to do in preparation for tomorrow's classes, so I'll bid you good night," Dumbledore said, taking his seat behind his elaborate desk and pushing his spectacles higher up on his large nose.  
  
Snape nodded absently, quickly scanning the list of things he had to accomplish by the morrow in his efficient mind. He bid the Headmaster a short adieu before leaving his office to return to his own chambers in the dungeons and the many tasks that awaited him therein, never noticing the sly smile that graced elder wizard's lips after their conversation had ended.  
  
It wasn't until he was halfway to his destination that he registered the feeling of nostalgia for his years as a student at this school which his talk with Dumbledore had—most likely purposefully, the wily old man—inspired in him. He'd actually given his word to the manipulative bastard that he would make an honest attempt at curbing his acerbic insults when it came to Potter and his accomplices, and once Severus Snape gave his word, he would do all in his power to keep it.   
  
"Good lad', indeed!' Severus fumed. 'DAMN ALBUS!'  
  
~*~  
  
As she sat in her favorite secluded corner of the Common Room one evening a month into her Second Year, Hermione found herself quite unable to concentrate on her schoolwork. Her thoughts were flitting and shifting with far more dexterity and swiftness than she was used to, and their torrential quality was making her feel rather light-headed. The words on the pages of her textbooks blurred and swam erratically before her eyes, and no matter how many times she might reread one passage she found that her mind could not—or would not—retain it. Quite peculiar, indeed.  
  
Pinching her nose between her eyebrows tightly in an effort to quell her growing headache, Hermione reached out a hand and slammed the heavy tome before her closed. The muffle thudding sound it caused had several of the other students who occupied the room shooting her curious looks, which had always been unsettling to her, innocent as they often were.   
  
She shoved her chair back and walked to the door which led to the girls' dorms as quickly as she could while being as quiet and unnoticeable as was possible. She so hated it when people stared at her. But with her arms clenched to her sides, her head bowed and her eyes fixed unwaveringly on her feet, she was unintentionally revealing her discomfiture and so drew more eyes magnetically to her fleeing form.   
  
But when the door to the left of the Common Room was pulled shut, so too was the small girl with the bushy hair and strange ways forced from the minds of her audience as their eyes returned instinctively to their work.  
  
Hermione leaned back against the wooden door and let out a relieved breath. Her heart, which had already been beating more quickly than normal before, was fairly racing with adrenaline. She had never been quite so ruffled by the attention of her peers, nor had she ever felt so alienated, so *apart*, from them. So alone.  
  
'I need to see somebody. I need to be with somebody,' her mind told her without being prompted by her consciousness. 'I need to talk to someone...'  
  
She raked a hand through her disheveled hair and pushed her body from its recline against the door, continuing up the steps to her dorm as if with purpose. But really, she had none.   
  
Before entering the girls' bedroom, her body made a swift detour into the washroom adjacent from it. Her feet carried her to the last sectioned off sink and mirror in the room which was her own, and upon reaching it she automatically turned to face the mirror.   
  
The face that looked back at her was surprisingly calm and dignified, appearing to emanate that scholarly pride that she, by habit, thrust into everyone's face. Did she always look this haughty? This assured? Was this stuck-up little prig *her*?  
  
"I suppose it is," she murmured to herself. The sound of her own voice emerging from the emptiness of the room reminded her that she was but one body among hundreds, and that her solitude could be disturbed at any time.  
  
She stepped closer to the sink and stared at her little shelf of toiletries. When her eyes landed on the loathsome, steel-toothed brush, they seemed to narrow of their own accord, as if facing down an old foe. Rolling her eyes, she reached out and grabbed the implement firmly as if she were defying her own foolishness and brought it to the top of her head.   
  
Looking up into the mirror, she caught her own gaze and was startled by her own cringing features. She did not want to fear an inanimate object. She smiled at herself as if she were doing a friend a kindness and softly separated a thick strand of hair from her unwieldy mane. As if she were dealing with a young child, she began to slide the brush down the lock gently, stroking the hair with her free hand in a soft trail after it. Becoming relaxed with these motions, she rested her side against the wall as she continued to patiently untangle her hair, strand by strand. She closed her eyes and smiled at nothing.   
  
"Hermione?"  
  
The wooden brush clattered to the floor, followed by a high-pitched gasp from Hermione. Straightening her robes embarrassedly, she turned to face the source of the tiny, light voice. And then she let out a breath in relief and smiled genially. It was only Ron's little sister, Ginny Weasley.  
  
"S-sorry if I startled you, Hermione," the small girl said in a tone just above a whisper. Hermione had to strain to hear her. "I didn't mean to. I'll go. Sorry." Before the little redhead could do so, however, Hermione put a friendly hand on her shoulder.  
  
"No, no, *I'm* sorry for being so easily frightened. Please stay." Hermione leaned back against the wall to appear more at ease and to make the girl feel so as well. The youngest Weasley was a bit young and shy, but she was somebody to talk to, and wasn't that just what Hermione had needed? She smiled at her again, having to tilt her head downwards slightly to look into her face. Well, that was a good start already. The kid was actually shorter than *her*!  
  
"So how are you liking it here at Hogwarts? Settled in yet, have you?" she asked kindly. Ginny smiled timidly and bowed her head.  
  
"It's...not bad." She abruptly raised her face again, concern etched over her features, as she realized how unappreciative she must have sounded. "I—I mean, it's, er...I'll get used to it." She offered Hermione another hopeful little smile. The older girl returned it warmly.  
  
"It's okay, Ginny," Hermione assured her. "It was hard on me too at first. When I arrived as a First Year, it took nearly 'til Christmas for me to adjust to it, but when I did, I found more and more that I loved about life at Hogwarts. You know, during the summer hols, I could hardly wait to get back! Trust me, you'll see."   
  
Ginny grinned up at her, slightly less timid now. She stepped just a bit closer and leaned back against the opposite wall of Hermione's stall.   
  
"The classes we're taking are really interesting," Ginny conceded. "And the professors are all very good and nice. ...Except Professor Snape, of course."  
  
"Of course," Hermione said, her voice empty. Her heart had sunk at Ginny's last admission. She'd never be able to talk to someone who couldn't at least speak civilly towards the one she could barely bring herself to think badly of. Perhaps the shy girl was just like all the other students after all.  
  
"But I don't take the things he says seriously," Ginny continued. "He's a good teacher, and if you stay out of his way a lot can be learned from him." Hermione's sullen eyes sparkled as she nodded eagerly at the younger girl's words.  
  
"Exactly!" she enthused. "I just adore Potions and, despite the Professor's faults, I don't think anyone could be a better teacher of it."   
  
"Yes, I think so too," Ginny agreed.   
  
Hermione opened her mouth as if to say more, but then closed it and tilted her head, as if thinking better of blurting what she had been about to say to Ginny. After several seconds, in which the younger girl could almost see Hermione's thoughts being weighed and debated, the Second Year faced the First Year again with a conspiratorial expression. Ginny leaned a bit closer, heartened that the older girl would want to share something personal with her.   
  
"Don't tell Harry or Ron this," Hermione whispered, grinning waggishly, "because they'd never understand it, but Professor Snape is my favorite teach at Hogwarts."   
  
Ginny nodded affirmatively, beaming back at the older girl. She wouldn't dare tell her, though, that she suspected the girl's admiration for the skills of their Potions Master was derived from a deeper sentiment. Despite her youth, she knew what it was like to harbor affection for a dark and unseemly person.   
  
"Yes, he's a favorite of mine, too," was all Ginny said. Hermione was fairly glowing. Here was her someone to talk to! She'd never had a close girlfriend to whom she could tell all of her secrets. She didn't know whether Ginny would prove to be such a trusted confidante, but she was more than willing to give her a try. The two girls giggled together, as if to seal their newly created yet unspoken bond.  
  
But Ginny silenced when an opaque emptiness came over her features, her eyes somber and lifeless. Hermione raised her eyebrows at her in question, but Ginny only smiled again. Still, the strange look clung to her face, refusing to be laughed away.   
  
"Well, I should be getting back to the dorm," she said. "Got a lot of work to do for tomorrow."  
  
Responding to the academic reference, Hermione straightened her posture and nodded. She felt considerably lightened after speaking with Ginny, somehow more courageous as well. A wicked thought crossed her mind: perhaps she'd give her Potions Professor an impromptu visit. Why not? After all, she would like to try and find out his lesson plans for tomorrow so she could be prepared for class. It was a demanding subject.  
  
"Yeah, I've got things to do as well. I'll see you later, Ginny," Hermione said, waving her hand somewhat bashfully in a cheerful farewell. Ginny smiled and returned the gesture.   
  
"See you, Hermione."  
  
After the younger girl had left the washroom, Hermione faced her reflection in the mirror again.   
  
'Should I go to visit him?' she pondered. 'What if he gets angry with me?'   
  
Hermione scoffed at her own thoughts. He was *always* angry with her, she should be used to it by now. And how was she ever going to get closer to him if she continued to be afraid of the man? Such childish behavior was ridiculous, and she knew it.  
  
It was decided. She would go to the dungeons in search of Professor Snape, and try to start up a leisurely conversation with him, try to become more familiar with him personally. Should he rebuke her efforts—which he almost definitely would—she would just keep trying until she eroded the airtight walls of his self-defense. Once she put her mind to something, she was determined to follow through with it, no matter what hindrances she might encounter in her quest.   
  
Besides, he probably wouldn't even be in his office anyway.   
  
Thankful that neither Harry nor Ron were in the Common Room when she slipped out of the portrait hole, for they would most definitely question her destination, and Gods knew how adept she was at lying, Hermione made her wary way down to the dungeons, working out in her mind what she would say to her Professor when and if she found him. 


	13. Impossible To Have Known

Beneath the Surface  
  
Chapter the Twelfthe: Impossible to Have Known  
  
'...And don't ask too many questions, don't speak unless you're spoken to... Oh! And *don't* talk too much if you are...' And so Hermione's inner monologue painstakingly prepared her for destination to the dungeons and her meeting with the unsociable man she would find therein, if she were lucky. As she had earlier told herself, he might not even be in the dungeons—or even in the school at all—and so she would be saved of what would undoubtably be a harrowing and humiliating experience.   
  
'I hope he's there, though,' yearned a desperate little voice in her mind. She sighed. True, the chances that Snape would be happy to see her were *very* slim, but her need to connect with him was of such strength that his inevitable rejection would be worth seeing and speaking to him. 'Gods, but I am hopelessly pathetic...'  
  
It was almost unconsciously that she found herself taking the teachers' route that Snape had shown her rather than the students' to the dungeons, and by the time she'd realized it she was nearly there and in no mood for a twenty minute trek back and around the castle. With shaking knees, Hermione descended down the pitch dark, winding staircase, clutching at the wall with her icy cold hands as she made her slow progress. Navigating her way down the impossibly steep steps in the dark was no easier the second time, but she managed to make it to the dungeons intact. She let out a relieved breath as she stepped out of the stairwell and into the chilly hallway.  
  
Of course, the real danger lay beyond the steps.   
  
And as she ventured closer to his lair, the faint glow of candlelight peeking out warmly from beneath the imposing oaken doors like an invitation (or, knowing her Professor as she did, like a cleverly laid trap) to enter them told her that the Professor was indeed in.  
  
~*~  
  
'Oh, what foul nuisance is to assail me now?!' Snape wondered, grimacing in irritation as the short, sharp raps on the door disturbed him from his reading. He swiftly secreted the book away in one of his desk drawers, not wishing its contents to be seen by another (not because they were dark or dangerous, but because the humiliation he would endure if everyone in the castle knew he occasionally read works such as 'The Last Unicorn', despite their complex symbolism, would be excruciating). What kind of a lost, errant soul would dare venture into this cold place uninvited?   
  
'Probably Dumbledore, come to lecture me again,' he grumbled inwardly, then sighed, resting his head—which had suddenly become rather heavy—on his hand. 'I knew it was a bad idea to stay in the classroom, but once I found this book again I couldn't put the damned thing down! Serves me right, I suppose. The old man's attracted to candlelight...'   
  
"Enter," he called to the door, allowing the tiredness to line his low voice for the only man who was permitted to hear it. But as the door creaked open (something that should have told him it immediately that the visitor was not Dumbledore, as the Headmaster had a tendency to burst into rooms cheerfully), the large, cautious brown eyes that peered past it belonged to one of the last people Snape had been expecting to be in the dungeons, let alone in *his* classroom, at such a late hour. The large eyes blinked sharply when they caught his narrowed ones and the rest of her small body followed them into the room; narrow face with eyes too large; skinny legs with bony knees; absolutely uncontrollable tufts of hair.   
  
Hermione Granger of Gryffindor, the one and only.   
  
To be quite honest, he was shocked at seeing the girl. Though they were on much better terms since their initial meeting at the start of the year (the first after the...unfortunate argument which had marked their last) and Miss Granger regularly worked as his assistant, an air of tension continually pervaded their shared atmosphere. Their exchanges, while polite (on her part, at any rate), were few and far between. Even when toiling together over a more difficult potion, the two remained silent and only conversed when the quiet became too awkward; excepting, of course, Hermione's constant and continuous questions.  
  
Yes, this surprise visit had caught Snape quite off guard, indeed. What could she possibly want from him? Was she going to stop assisting him after hours? *Why* is she *here*?  
  
In an attempt to excuse his weakened greeting and to disguise his bafflement, Snape turned disdainful eyes on the already apprehensive child who remained standing just before the closed door. When she made no move to speak, he raised an impatient eyebrow.  
  
"...Well?" he demanded, sharp voice cutting through the stillness of the room. The girl jumped. Her once deathly still stance had dissolved into nervy fidgeting and impulsive twitches. Her thin voice burst from her lips in a nearly unintelligible jumble of words.  
  
"S-sir—G-good evening, sir. I-I wanted to...I c-came here to...I w-would like to—"   
  
"Take. A. Breath, Miss Granger," Snape commanded her calmly. What was the meaning of all *this*? Despite her professor's stern voice, Hermione did as she was told. She found his dispassionate demeanor relaxing.   
  
"Sorry, Professor. Um..Peeves frightened me on the way down here." Her voice was softer in tone yet much clearer in meaning. Snape had leant forward just slightly on his desk in order to hear her better, but the action was made in earnest rather than to mock her shyness.   
  
However, when she failed to continue speaking his eyebrow resumed its upward ascent. Her eyes began to dart around in her search for the right words to use. What does one say to their foul-tempered Professor when they want to make friends with them? A considerable quandary indeed. Stupidly, she let out an airy giggle at the thought. Snape reclined back into his chair, his arms moving with him to cross gracefully over his chest, each finger settling into the crooks of his arms one by one. Hermione found herself entranced by them. They were so long, so pale, so elegant, like he himself in his entirety...  
  
"Miss Granger," Snape addressed her irritably, his expression dry and humorless. Her eyes snapped back to his immediately. When he leaned back over his desk, it was to glare at her warningly. "I will urge you to state your purpose with me as soon as I finish speaking, for it is after teaching hours and I am in no mood to tolerate the presence of adolescents if I'm not obligated to."  
  
Hermione's eyebrows rose as if to question the validity of his just barely unspoken challenge. He assured her of it with a harsh sneer and a scathing tone.  
  
"SPEAK!" He lowered his head so his black eyes could glower ominously up at her from beneath lowered brows. "Now."  
  
Again, she did as she was told. But her stubborn pride refused to be cowed by his callousness, refused to acknowledge defeat by the one she so desired to befriend. She would not leave here tonight without having at least tried to do just that.  
  
"Professor, must you do that?" The words came out before she had thought them through—something she almost always did before speaking (or anything at all, for that matter). Though her composure wavered for a second, she raised her chin and forced her expression to appear determined and unmoving. Snape couldn't decide whether he was more puzzled as to its meaning or that of her question. So he covered up his confusion with exasperation.  
  
"Pardon me, Miss Granger, but what in Hades are you talking about!?" He drew up in his seat and laid his slender hands securely on the arms of the chair. He sneered and looked down his nose at her derisively. "Do you even know, girl?"  
  
Hermione opened her mouth, but quickly bit back the insult she had been about to deliver (it would have included the words 'mean' and 'git'). She stepped closer to Snape and crossed her arms in unconscious imitation of his famed stance when staring down students, and leaned her slight body on one leg. She was feeling very brave all of a sudden. After all, her Professor may be a powerful wizard with a short fuse, but he was just a man when it came down to it. She could deal with him. She looked him directly in the eyes when she spoke, her voice coming out more strongly and without a tremble.  
  
"Of course I do. What I meant to ask you, *sir*, was why you behave so rudely to a guest in your classroom."  
  
"...What?" Snape knew what she was insinuating, but he was shocked that *she* had been the one to actually say it to him; so shocked that he completely forgot to bark at her and throw her out of the dungeons. 'Drat! Now she has an opening.' Lucky for him, though, the girl seemed to have lost her ammunition, and was now staring at her feet in contemplation.   
  
"I just wanted to talk to you, was all," she said softly. She seemed to really mean it. Now Snape was completely in the dark. Why would she abandon her beloved friends and studies in favor of traversing half the castle to see him in the depths of its forbidding bowels? There was no plausible reason that he could think of. Unless...  
  
Unless she was hurt in some way, and needed a potion whose brewing was beyond Poppy's skill.   
  
"About what, Miss Granger?" he asked her in a low voice, allowing a modicum concern to be heard through the austere tone that he reserved for his students. A crease appeared between his brows. "Are you... quite alright?"  
  
Hermione looked up at him as if in surprise, her eyes taking in his face to see if the worry in his voice was evident there as well. Her cheeks reddened when it appeared that it was. "N-no, Professor, I'm just fine."   
  
Snape tilted his head as he continued to scrutinize her closely, his eyebrows drawing further together, as they tended to do when he was working to solve a problem. Hermione had only seen this expression take hold of his features when he was concentrating on a potion or mentally dissecting papers; during those times, his full attention was focused on the object before him. Hermione felt both flattered and overwhelmed that she warranted such intense study. She almost wished that something *were* amiss with her, that she might prolong his consideration.  
  
"Then why are you here, child?" he said, no trace of aggravation in his voice. He really wanted to know. Now was her chance! She cleared her throat and struggled to keep her eyes on his; it wouldn't do to falter now that she'd come this far.   
  
"I came here to...to see you, sir," she said timidly, her cheeks still aflame. Apparently, Snape did not make the connection with them and her reason for being in his dungeons. Though confused, he said nothing, waiting for her to elaborate. "I know we see each other in classes and I help you with your potions, but we never get to...just...talk. You know?"  
  
"I'm afraid I don't, Miss Granger." The mystification on his face was so genuine, Hermione was just able to stop herself from laughing aloud at it. She knew he would not take it kindly if she did, and their discussion would end abruptly thereafter.   
  
"Do explain yourself," he said in a slightly commanding tone. Hermione sobered at once and thought carefully about how to answer him.  
  
"Well..." she began, her expression pensive as she stared down at her mary janes again. "This is very...difficult for me to say to you, but...I really r-respect your intelligence. You're a v-very good professor." She raised her face to his and caught his gaze before she went on. He could tell that what she was saying was of great importance and meaning to her. "You're my favorite Professor."  
  
In his long years of teaching, made longer still by those he was forced to instruct, not one of his students had ever said this—these four simple words that he was told made a teacher's life worthwhile—to him in his entire career. Shell-shocked, Snape merely stared blankly into the adoring eyes of his young pupil, not knowing at all what he could possibly say to her admission. Realizing that he probably looked imbecilic, practically *gaping* at the child (this student among many of whom he never wanted to see him appear at all uncertain or ignorant of what to do in any situation), he resettled himself in his chair and feigned composure.   
  
Of course, the girl needed *some* response to what she'd told him. She deserved that.   
  
Of course, Severus Snape had never received a compliment of this magnitude, not from *anyone*, ever in his life.   
  
So the only reply he was able to give the girl, in his very limited experience of gratitude, was a tiny, close-lipped smile which was uncomfortable and creaky from disuse and quickly vanished from his lips as quickly as it had come. If Hermione had blinked, she would have missed it. But she hadn't, and her heart swelled with pride and thankfulness that she had received it.   
  
For, in the year and more that she had known him, Hermione Granger had not once seen Severus Snape offer anyone an honest, genuine smile, and here he had given it to her—her!—of his own free will. She beamed back at him, her face feeling as if it were about to break from the spreading of her smile.   
  
As for Snape, this encounter would be forever recorded in his memory as one of the strangest and most unanticipated of his life. And the girl wasn't finished yet! She began to tread closer to him, so he had to turn in his seat to look at her (he wouldn't dare take his eyes off of the unpredictable child!). Her slow advancement took him aback, and he withdrew as far into his chair as was comfortable so as to retain the distance between them. Hermione took note of this, but instead of discouraging her from getting closer to him—both physically and emotionally—his withdrawal from her only served to strengthen her resolve to break through his barriers and speak to the man within the professor.   
  
The further he backed away from her, the closer she desired to come to him.   
  
Mercifully for Snape, Hermione halted approximately a foot or so before him. He had been afraid the child was going to try and crawl into his lap! The demure yet bold look on her face was making him suspicious; of what, he dared not say to himself even in his own mind, but he knew its name full well.   
  
He felt the need to make light of this situation, to diminish its significance for he himself, if not for the girl, but all that came to mind was a sarcastic, rather snarky remark.   
  
"Now, Miss Granger, you can't possibly mean that," he said seriously. "What about Professor Mcgonagall? It just wouldn't do to favor the Head of your House's rival over the Head of your own."  
  
After looking blankly at him for a long moment, her eyes lit up and she laughed loudly at his teasing. He had never heard her really laugh before; the sound of it was high-toned and tinkling, sort of like a bell. Though a bit abrasive to his sensitive ears, it was not an unpleasant sound. One side of his mouth quirked upwards in the snide smile that he was accustomed to giving (this one didn't hurt his face at all).   
  
"Well, Professor, I suppose you are human after all, aren't you?" Hermione said as her laughter died down. Though the statement seemed impertinent, given their positions, her wry expression told him that it had been said all in good fun.   
  
"Hmm," he sniffed, raising a noncommittal brow. They remained silent for a long time, Snape lounging stiffly in his chair and Hermione calmly standing opposite him, just observing each other. The quietude was not uncomfortable; rather, it was allowed to go on interminably, as the two were content to simply look at the other as a whole person, sizing up what they knew of them now against what they had previously thought about their respective characters.   
  
Snape, a glint in his eyes that suggested he had come to an important decision about the girl before him, was the first to speak.  
  
"Well, Miss Granger." His features were as sharp as always, but a mischievous quality shone through in them that Hermione had never before seen. It made him appear more relaxed with her, as he likely would be when speaking with one he deemed an equal ('equal' to him being, of course, 'adequate'). "You have my full attention. *What* would you like to talk with me about?"   
  
Ecstatic that he had actually consented to speak with her on a casual basis (for, knowing him as she now did, that was what he had imparted to her, however ambiguous his words sounded), Hermione opened her grinning mouth in preparation to speak. ...When she realized that she had no idea what she wanted to say to him.   
  
'I *knew* I'd forgotten to go over something!'   
  
Her face instantly fell, expression bespeaking utter defeat, and she fully expected him to dismiss her as a 'silly girl' and go about his business, never to speak to her again even in class. He must have been feeling extraordinarily charitable this evening, for, instead of leaping to his feet and angrily throwing her out of his classroom, Snape merely released a breathy, if brief, chuckle. It seemed that even *he* hadn't expected himself to do so, for he immediately raised a hand to cover his mouth and cleared his throat in an effort to disguise the laughter (if the low scoffing sound could be called laughter).   
  
"Now that mummy finally bought you the pony, you don't know what to do with the reins, do you?" He instantly regretted his use of the insipid proverb, both because of its significance to him and for the muddled expression on his student's face.   
  
"I've never heard that one before," was all she said.  
  
"You wouldn't have. My...father made it up." 'To torment me with throughout my, shall we say, *lacking* childhood, the sadistic bastard,' his inner monologue added.  
  
Though the last few words had been muttered under his breath, the tone that Snape had used to speak them made it clear that he and his father had shared a tense relationship, at best. Snape ducked his head reflexively, averting his eyes from Hermione's now engrossed ones.   
  
He had NOT wanted to go there. Ever. With ANYONE.   
  
Afraid that the child would press him further on the subject, or, far worse, attempt to draw him out and sympathize with him, Snape waited uncomfortably for her response, his body feeling like a tightly coiled spring. But, as seemed to be the tone of the evening, Hermione did something he would have never expected of her: the child, her face plastered with an overjoyed beam that could light up a pitch dark room without the use of magic, drew closer to him in her excitement, the cause of which he had no idea. He rose out of his seat instinctively, back arching away from her in his guarded state.   
  
"You see, Professor?!" she all but shouted at him, throwing out her arms to illustrate her point (of which he still had no idea). "*Now* we're talking!"   
  
He blinked at her. She giggled at him.   
  
"No, I mean, we're communicating, just like I'd wanted us to!" Her words bubbled forth with the animation and certainty of an experienced Master who'd just discovered a miracle and was attempting to explain it in layman's terms to a curious bystander. "You see, in the several minutes after you told me to pick a subject, and I couldn't pick a subject, you did so yourself without even thinking about it, and have already told me that you *hate* your father!..."  
  
'So she *did* catch that...'  
  
Snape drew up defensively. "Now, see here, Miss—" But Hermione prattled on, heedless of his interruption.  
  
"...Now, that's the sort of thing that even Harry hasn't told me, and you know what happened to *him* at the Dursleys'! Why, everyone does, poor thing. Anyway, my point is..."  
  
"Assuming that you have one," Snape muttered petulantly.   
  
"...That though I've been friends with Harry and Ron for over a year, *you* just told me something far more personal than they *ever* have!"  
  
"But I haven't..." Snape trailed off, realizing that resistance was futile. *Gods*, but the girl could *talk*!  
  
"And no one's ever..." Here Hermione faltered, bowing her head thoughtfully. When she rose it again, Snape's indignation was forgotten as he took in her somber features and large, pitiably empty eyes. Such desolation was not lost on him. His brows slowly unknitted to settle over his serious eyes in what would have been a concerned expression had they not been so firmly set. She was encouraged by it, and continued on after taking a steadying breath.   
  
"No one's ever gotten that close to me." She smiled as if to mock herself, but her eyes were still so sad. "Like I have a contagious disease or something. Probably do, for all I know about it."  
  
Snape's heart went out to the child, and he knew without a doubt that he wouldn't have been able to empathize so with any other of his students, including the Slytherins. Impulsively, he moved closer to her, his footsteps silent. While staring solemnly at some point directly before her eyes, Hermione was fairly startled when the stone and wood surroundings of the dungeon suddenly turned into a dense wall of billowing black wool. Slowly, her eyes climbed the sable tower until they connected with her Professor's own black eyes. They were opaque, and yet still they glittered with a light that was buried under layers and layers of darkness, a fire that was kindled deep beneath the surface.   
  
He reached out a hand to her, the trimmed nails of which appeared invisible against his pallid skin. The artful fingers of his elegant hand hovered inches from her own hand, then navigated their way fluidly up her arm, skimmed over her shoulder, and traced the curve of her cheek before floating up to finally rest atop her tousled mane. Hermione felt every inch of the invisible trail his hand had taken from the tips of her fingers to the top of her head as if he had caressed her skin with it, and so the gentle contact of his hand on her hair impacted her senses like a bolt of lightning. Her eyelids fluttered and then came together in a moment of blissful gratitude to him.   
  
"You don't have a disease, child," he all but murmured to her softly. "I know what it's like to be...avoided like the plague." The last words were said with a touch of dry resentment, and it seemed that he had vacated his body for an instant afterwards as his eyes grew cloudy and distant. His hand became completely still on Hermione's head, feeling cold and hard as the marble it appeared to be fashioned of. When she shuffled underneath it, however, he came back to himself at once and his touch felt alive and tingly again, his eyes becoming hard as they refocused on her.  
  
He seemed to just become aware of his hand's position on her head, and it stiffened self-consciously while his expression returned to that of the stern amusement he had favored her with moments before. Patting her coarse head a couple of times in an almost fatherly gesture, he removed his hand from her to join the other in crossing over his chest. Another silence pervaded between them as they observed one another once again, Hermione gazing up at Snape in wonder, he looking down on her with grudging acceptance. Once again, Snape decided to take the lead and speak first.   
  
"Well, Miss Granger," he began, his tone strictly that of a Professor to his student. "I believe we've discussed enough for one day." She opened her mouth to protest, but a challenging raise of his eyebrow snapped it shut. "I have an insufferable amount of work left to do, and I'm sure you're not without an agenda yourself." Though the words had been suffused with subtle meaning, Hermione did not comprehend it.   
  
"Yes, sir," she conceded regretfully, turning to go. Their first dramatic conversation as one person to another seemed to be ending anticlimactically. Before her lower lip began to tremble, however, Snape decided that he had one more thing to say to her.  
  
"Oh, and Miss Granger?"  
  
"Yes?" She whipped around eagerly, making Snape have to fight to conceal another chuckle.   
  
"If you ever feel the need to, er, chat again, don't hesitate to return."  
  
"Oh, Professor, do you mean—"  
  
"*But*," he cautioned her, holding up one long, straight finger. "If you come down here with the intent to talk and it so happens that I do not wish to converse with you, I will tell you so and you will return to your room without argument. Are we understood?"  
  
"O-oh, of course, Professor! Whatever you say!" Hermione nodded emphatically. She wouldn't have cared if he'd demanded her mouth be magically sewn closed during their exchanges, just so long as he allowed her to see him.   
  
It was to Severus Snape's immense horror that Hermione Granger's eyes began to swim with tears (which thankfully did not fall) and her lips to twitch with emotion. It was to his even further chagrin that, in a moment which was played out in slow motion, as a disturbing trauma is experienced, the girl rushed to his motionless form, wrapped her bony arms around his waist (her fingertips barely met at the small of his back), and squeezed him so tightly it felt as if his ribs would crack (who knew the little whelp had such strength in her!). Though this 'hug', as Snape deduced it to be, only lasted for an instant, as the girl turned and raced out of the classroom fast as a Seeker after a Snitch immediately afterwards, its impact was not lost on him.  
  
Yes, he would continue to see her, but he would be sure to keep a keen and cautious eye on her at all times. Though he knew not how he would accomplish it, or even how he would manage to dredge up the proper heartlessness to do so (something that had at all other times of necessity come so easily to him), he would have to squelch her burgeoning attachment to him before it developed into a feeling of something deeper, something which would be far more difficult to stifle or to even control. He must do this for both of their sakes.  
  
If only he knew that such a feat was by now impossible. 


	14. Skewed Views

A/N: The mention of drug-usage far below is meant to be humorous, while at the same time not meant to offend anyone. I have experienced (not firsthand) the effects of drug addiction on a person, and while they are not funny at all in reality, I find that they can be in theory. Yeah:P. So read on, enjoy, and PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW!!!!!^_^  
  
Beneath the Surface  
  
Chapter the Thirteenthe: Skewed Views  
  
Good things about Professor Snape:  
  
1) He is very intelligent.  
  
2) He is an interesting and mysterious person.  
  
3) He speaks honestly and doesn't try to hide what he is thinking.  
  
4) He lets me talk with him personally.  
  
5) He is tall and thin, which is my 'type'.  
  
6) He is pale and has dark hair, which is also my 'type'.  
  
7) His eyes are black like I've never before seen, and he has very long black eyelashes.  
  
8) His hands are beautiful.  
  
9) His voice is beautiful.  
  
10) HE is beautiful.  
  
Hermione Granger sighed and let the quill fall from her fingers onto the desk she was currently leaning over. Reading over what she had written, she rolled her eyes and pursed her lips. She stared down at the trite words, which she was ashamed to know came from her own mind, for several more moments in annoyance. Still, she lifted her quill from the harsh wood and tilted her head in preparation to continue her writing. Writing her thoughts down on parchment always helped her mind to digest them more fully.  
  
  
  
Bad things about Professor Snape:  
  
1) He is harsh towards everyone, even the other Professors.  
  
2) He is quick to pass judgment on others, and it is hard to change his mind once he's made it up about someone.  
  
3) He favors the Slytherins academically, even though he is mean to them too.  
  
4) He is VERY moody and unpredictable.  
  
5) He...  
  
Her eyebrows knitted together when she couldn't think of another flaw of Snape's character to record on her parchment, though she knew there were many. But, facts were facts, and the fact here was that there were more good points to Snape than were bad. Therefore, she would continue to see him and to try for a deeper relationship with him. If he would let her, of course. Therein lay her dilemma. How in Hades (as Snape himself was fond of exclaiming) was she going to convince him that she was a woman worthy of his romantic attentions?  
  
'When you become one, you nitwit,' the sensible, if biting, part of her mind hissed at her. 'Aha!' The problem-solver took over. 'That's the solution! All I have to do is find a way to look and behave more like a woman, and then Professor Snape will see how much I care for him. ...But how does one act like a woman?'  
  
She hadn't spent enough time with her mother to know, and even when they were together, Mrs. Granger kept up an impenetrable mask of distant, if affectionate, good humor. She always spoke to her daughter as if she were someone else's small child; her voice was warm and her words were kind, but she never talked with her about complex issues or had deep conversations with her about life and how to prepare and deal with it. It was like she was responsible for Hermione's care and maintenance, but not obligated to be there for her when it came to matters of the heart.   
  
Not that Hermione was aware that her mother was *supposed* to be close with her, to comfort her when she was feeling sad or upset; to laugh with her when she was happy or just about nothing at all; to encourage her in her work and the things that she cared about; or to even tell her that she loved her every day. How could someone be upset about something they were completely ignorant of?  
  
It should be noted that all of her mother's deficiencies concerning her relationship with her daughter went for her father as well, if not more so. Mr. Granger was just as untouchable and easygoing as his wife. Unlike her, however, he had never taken his daughter out for a casual outing whose purpose was to simply spend some time with her alone, to talk with her about her life and work. He had never held his daughter, never hugged or kissed her. It was always just that benign smile, the trivial words, and those empty eyes behind his glasses that never looked her in the eye. If Hermione hadn't known better, she would have thought her own father was afraid of her. But that was silly; how could a grown man be afraid of his own daughter, and what for? Preposterous.  
  
If Hermione had been able to discuss her relationship with her parents as well as her feelings for Professor Snape with a psychiatric professional, they would most likely tell her that she was searching, however unconsciously, so desperately for the attention and love that she hadn't been getting from her parents that she was drawn to and came to crave the love of one of her own Professors—a figure of authority and approximately the same age as her mother and father. The fact that this particular person displayed characteristics of antagonism and cruelty may seem to disprove the above theory, but the professional would say that they only went along with Hermione's stubborn nature and tendency to be overly hard on herself if she failed. To succeed in 'getting' this man would not only make her feel like she'd passed the ultimate test in getting someone who loathed you to love you, but being with an authority figure who was so much older than her would also make her feel like she was finally getting the love and care that she should have been getting unconditionally from her parents all her life.   
  
This was all a neat and concise explanation of things, but if Hermione were to hear them she would emphatically deny that her only reason for wanting to be with Snape was to make him a substitute 'parent' to her. The mysteries of the human psyche are so deep and complex that no one person, especially one who has not experienced such emotions firsthand, could ever disentangle them so easily and with such a clinical explanation.   
  
Hermione Granger was beginning to fall in love with Severus Snape, and there was no easy way to rationalize or to isolate her reasons for it.   
  
There was never any reason for love; it just happened. And there was nothing one could do about it once it did. Either make it happen or wait it out. And Hermione was the kind of person who was inclined to do the former.   
  
"Miss Granger!" the harsh voice of Professor Snape cut across the classroom, aimed for her and finding its target in her wide, startled brown eyes. "I hope for your sake that whatever you are so busily jotting down are notes on this lesson. Now, do be so kind as to. Pay. Attention."   
  
Perhaps it was because of their increasing nightly meetings that he had decided not to make a fool of her by forcing her to read her parchment to the entire class. Of course, knowing how temperamental he was, he may just have been in a good mood that day and so was being charitable to her. Who could know?  
  
She just hoped he would continue to be in higher spirits when she visited him tonight (they hadn't had a proper chat for nearly a fortnight, and Hermione had taken to seeing him at least once a week when her schedule permitted it). Though she had no idea how she was going to pull it off, this was going to be the first night she would implement her plan to impress upon Snape that she was as mature as any adult woman, and that he should start to see her that way.   
  
~*~  
  
"What can I do for you this evening, Miss Granger?" Snape asked dryly from where he stood at his desk, his back to her while he shuffled through the myriad of papers that were always there. It had been rather a while since he'd last seen the girl, and he hated to admit that he had been missing her buoyant chatter.   
  
They had met half about dozen times thus far, and during those one to two hour discussions they had started to get to know one another better. Though Snape had made the mistake of letting on how much he despised his father during their first meeting, he had allowed nothing more of himself be known to the child other than that he was largely Russian/Czechoslovakian by background (after which, despite his pointed glares and scornful sneers, the prat had taken to jokingly referring to him either as a 'Czechie' or by the name Rasputin, whom she insisted he looked like. He knew of the man, and failed to see the resemblance), and that his father had owned and managed a bookstore for a living.  
  
Hermione had, of course, let on much about herself. He had so far gleaned nearly everything about her life from the talkative girl, but what stood out to him the most was that she had been born to emotionally negligent parents; had been ostracized during the years of her Muggle schooling because of her tendency to obsess over books and learning and lack of social skills; and that she desperately needed to prove her intelligence to the world, perhaps because it had not been recognized satisfactorily by others in her life.  
  
She had not said any of these things aloud, rather, he had managed to pick them out from between her words and behind her anecdotes. Many circumstances in his life had contributed to his ability to listen so well and for just the right information.  
  
He had come to realize that his job during these discussions of theirs was to sit back and listen while the child let off steam. Why he allowed himself—and more so, did not seem to mind it—to be reduced to such a pawn-like figure, he could not and was unwilling to say.   
  
At the moment, he could feel the girl shifting her position from foot to foot behind him as surely as if he could see the awkward spectacle; again, his senses were keenly fine-tuned. He could tell by the tension of the air around them that she was attempting to try something new this evening. He was almost afraid of what it could possibly be—the unpredictability of this child was maddening!—but when he turned to face her, it was with his accustomed imperturbable expression.   
  
The girl did look quite distressed indeed. Of course, she was trying to appear quite the opposite, but he could see through her unsteady facade easily. She had pulled half of her unruly hair back into a clasp so the entirety of her face was revealed, and he became aware that he had never seen it before without tendrils of hair veiling the majority of it from his view.   
  
It was a painfully honest face—ill-equipped to disguise her emotions from being plastered onto its features (which, right now, were acutely nervous). Her soft brown eyes now appeared to take up half of her face, fairly dwarfing her small nose and mouth. Reminded him of a doe. Or a fawn, rather, considering her age. He always considered her age.  
  
Snape sat on the edge of his desk and studied her in a relaxed manner, his head tilted to the side, arms crossed loosely over his stomach. He raised a perplexed eyebrow when the timid smile she offered him quivered before sliding into a more confident one (one that she was certain concealed her imperfect teeth). She looked up at him through half-lidded eyes that were attempting to appear confident.   
  
"Good evening, child," he said, beginning this evening's conversation for her.  
  
His formal greeting appeared to relax her considerably, and she giggled softly at it, making sure to keep the tone of her voice low and smooth.  
  
"'Evening, Czechie," she teased. He grimaced openly at the moniker.   
  
"Miss Granger, must you?" he asked irritably, a hint of lightness in his tone. "It's highly improper."  
  
"But of course, Professor," she assured him playfully. A comfortable moment passed them by before she forced herself to come closer to him; she wanted to begin this as soon as possible, lest her nerves get the better of her and she fail completely. She couldn't bear even the thought of that.  
  
As he had done before when she'd tried to get within arm's reach of him, Snape discreetly shifted his body farther back against his desk, wondering why the girl insisted on insinuating herself into his personal space.   
  
"Professor?" she asked him in the deeper tone she wasn't yet used to.   
  
"Yes..." he answered suspiciously. What was wrong with her voice? Was she ill? Did she have to look into his eyes so openly like that? It was making him uncomfortable. He tilted his head back away from her, but made sure to keep her gaze.   
  
"What was it like when you went to school here?"   
  
Snape blinked in surprise. This was rather personal information, and he wasn't sure that he would altogether like to share it with her. He cleared his throat, averting his gaze from hers. "It was much like it is now, same classes, schedules, and so forth," he evaded. Hermione pursed her lips and looked up at him skeptically.  
  
"You know what I mean, Professor," she said. He sighed.  
  
"Yes, I know what you mean." He slid smoothly off his desk and stood with his arms folded, looking down on her. "But I don't believe I'd like to discuss that with you." Hermione gaped at his imperious tone, and he raised a challenging brow at her.  
  
"And just why not?" she demanded, mimicking his stance. "Do you think me undeserving of such information?"  
  
"Don't be doltish, girl," he sneered at her. He could sense her hackles rising at the insult, and secretly took pleasure in the way that such a meaningless barb could get under her skin. "They are simply memories that I am not fond of reminiscing upon. With anyone."  
  
Snape dearly wished that he could retract his words, as they were having a curious response on Hermione's face: it had fallen as if in apology, all traces of frustration dissipated, and she was favoring him with gentle, sympathetic eyes. His brows furrowed in confusion. "What is the matter with you, Granger?"  
  
"What? ...No, it's nothing." She stared at her mary janes, as she tended to do when she was at a loss for words (which was not very often, Snape noted sardonically). "Just...I'm sorry it was so bad for you. But you know, my schooling was the same way. It was just dreadful in the Muggle world. Why, even now—"  
  
"Miss Granger," Snape cut into her rambling, fingers massaging the bridge of his nose. "Though I sympathize with your plight, I'm sure I don't want to discuss mine. Understood?"   
  
He shot her a warning look, which she bristled at. She was only trying to help him ease his burden, and here he was refusing her without so much as a 'thanks anyway'! Suddenly, a devious idea occurred to her, and a sly smile spread her lips. Perhaps she had benefitted in more ways than one from being so often in his presence.  
  
"Very well, Professor," she acceded good-naturedly. Snape fairly gawked at her, so unexpected was her surrender to him. "Then I'm sure you won't mind if I just tell you all about what it was like for me at school. You see, my first year of primary school was very—"  
  
"Fine, fine! I'll tell you about my days as a student here, but only briefly, and I don't want to hear any questions or interruptions. Is *that* understood?" Snape cautioned her fiercely. Hermione nodded mutely, her wide eyes rapt as they stared up at him.  
  
In truth, Snape immediately recognized the little game she was playing with him, but decided to go along with it, if only to speed up this discussion. He knew that she would fight him incessantly until he gave her the answers she wanted, and he was far too tired to argue with her. Though he had to admit that it would feel good to lessen a small part of his heavy load of burdens to one who was in a position to better understand them. It wasn't as if the child was prone to telling tales, anyway.   
  
And, truth be told, if there was one thing Severus Snape couldn't resist, it was being the center of attention, especially when his audience was paying it to him so worshipfully.  
  
"Alright then." Snape began pacing the room, making sure not to look directly at the child who was following him intently with her eyes. "I started my schooling at Hogwarts in the year 1971. I'd spent the summer before voraciously researching the subjects I would be taking in my first year, and, coupled with my already superior intellect, I was far and away ahead of the others in my year both academically and cognitively speaking. Though I devoted considerably less of my time to study as the years went on, I still managed to receive the highest marks in all of Hogwarts' principal courses up to my final year as a student here."  
  
Hermione tried to keep up with the barrage of information Snape was throwing at her, but all she was able to discern in her mind was that he wasn't as old as she had previously thought him to be.  
  
As he got into his narration, Snape had begun to take on a lecturing tone. Speaking, however abstractly, about his past would be far easier for him if he could feel detached from it, as he did when he was teaching a class (though not when dealing with the students as individuals, of course).   
  
'1971, let's see... If he was eleven when he started at Hogwarts, then that would make him... only 32 or so now! That's not so bad at all! Only twenty years older than me. Well, that's, hmm... still not so bad as it could be. What is age, anyway? Just a number, is what it is. Doesn't matter at all in the long run. What's he saying now?...'  
  
"As for my demeanor when I was a student—for I'm sure you'll want me to describe *that*—" Here Snape stopped to shoot Hermione a meaningful glare before resuming his pacing. "I was quiet and rarely spoke up in class unless called upon by a Professor. The other children resented my silence, and perceived it either as my keeping to a mysterious secrecy or as plain and simple arrogance. In any case, I did not make many friends during my stay within these hallowed halls."   
  
Snape had appeared to become bitter, and had desisted his pacing to stand beside his desk. He was squinting down at the floor, as if he could verily see his past unfolding before his eyes, and his arms wrapped around his gaunt frame defensively.  
  
"Any friends I did have hung about me only so they could view me up close and personal; they wanted to unravel the 'deep secrets' I carried always with me, and I knew that when they felt they'd done so they would scatter to the winds, going about their lives without me as everyone always has." He smiled to himself, the saddest little smile that Hermione had ever seen. Tears welled in her eyes at the sight of it. She knew just what he was talking about; she knew that perpetual aloneness well.   
  
Suddenly, Snape scoffed, straightening up a bit. "Or the little idiots wanted to see if they could leach off of my intelligence, as if they thought spending enough time with me would somehow cause my good grades to 'rub off' on them. Infuriating."   
  
Hermione nodded; she could definitely relate to THAT. Snape must have noticed the motion out of the corner of his eye, for he finally turned and faced her. They just stared at each other for a while, she knowing that he wanted no words of consolation for the pain he had suffered, he appreciating her blessed silence and basking in the understanding he found in her soft, dusky eyes.   
  
"Thank you, Professor," she finally intoned, her voice full in her throat after having been unused for so long. "I'm glad you told me that."  
  
"Hmm," was all he said in reply. He was beginning to feel ill at ease, and silently willed her to ask him another question (what was his world coming to?). She sensed his wish like a pinprick in the back of her mind, and was happy to grant it.  
  
"Professor?"  
  
"Yes?" he asked absently, a finger gently pressing the hollow above his chin.  
  
"Why is Malfoy your favorite student?" Hermione herself knew not why she had asked him this, the question had simply popped out of her mouth as if it had appeared from nowhere. Snape came back to himself with a start, fully alerted by the strange inquiry. He fixed astounded eyes upon her, which she met uncertainly with her own.  
  
"Excuse me? Draco Malfoy, my 'favorite student'?" Surprisingly, Snape let out a mirthful scoff, and an amused smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Preposterous!"  
  
"What?" Hermione protested, flustered. "But, Professor, you can't deny that you look the other way in class when he misbehaves, and you're always praising his work when you don't even notice the other students'. How do you explain those things?"  
  
"Rather easily, Miss Granger. I praise Malfoy's work because he deserves it; surprisingly, the boy's a gifted student."  
  
"But what about the first thing I said, that you let him get away with things in class?" Hermione persisted. To her pleasure, Snape's confidence faltered and he looked away from her, his expression reticent. However, Hermione demanded an answer, and she stared at him unblinkingly, expectantly awaiting one. He finally cracked under the pressure, rolling his eyes.  
  
"Alright!" he blurted out, throwing up his hands. "I'll tell you why I'm so benevolent to that boy, but you must give me your word that you won't ever repeat it to anyone."  
  
"You have it," she agreed earnestly. "I promise you I won't."   
  
Snape nodded grimly and turned his back to her. How did this sliver of a girl manage to get him into these precarious situations? He shook his head before speaking, throwing the words hastily over his shoulder at her.   
  
"You see, I have to be deferential to the boy, because..." Snape pressed his eyelids together resentfully. He knew he was going to regret saying this, but it was too late to stop now. "Because the brat's a cousin of mine."  
  
The information had been muttered quietly under his breath, but the heavily tense silence that had descended upon the room told Snape that Hermione had not taken it with a grain of salt. He turned his face to look sidelong at the girl, wanting to gauge her reaction, and upon seeing it turned his body fully around to face her; Hermione's jaw had fallen halfway down her neck and her eyes bulged frighteningly from her sockets. She looked as if he'd told her that Draco was his illegitimate son.  
  
"Several times removed, of course," he amended, crossing his arms uncomfortably.  
  
"...Good GODS!" Hermione finally exclaimed. "I can't believe—you and Draco—whose side—which parent—WHAT?!"  
  
"Calm down, Miss Granger," Snape told her firmly, putting up his hands as if to shield himself from her verbal onslaught. "I might as well explain. You see, the Snapes and the Malfoys are connected by the marriage of my great-grandmother to Draco Malfoy's great-great-grandfather, who produced five children; in short, Draco and myself are closely enough related to see each other at certain family gatherings, but distant enough not to even remotely share the same immediate forefathers. And of course, we are also close enough for him to complain to his esteemed father that his cousin Severus isn't treating his son like family."  
  
"Wow," Hermione breathed in an awed tone as he finished. "I believe that is the most bizarre thing I've ever heard in my entire life." Snape rolled his eyes and sighed, but did not attempt to hide the smirk that curved his lips.  
  
"Melodrama doesn't become you, Miss Granger," he teased her dryly. His smirk widened to dimple his left cheek when Hermione huffed in disbelief; his sarcasm had achieved the desired affect upon her, as it never failed to do. Seeing him smile (or the closest thing he would come to it) made Hermione do so as well, and she quickly forgot his little jest at her expense. She was honestly beginning to treasure these times that she spent with him, and looked forward to them more than anything else in her life.   
  
Before she could boldly tell him so, however, Snape's body jolted as if in pain, his faint smile mutating into a tormented grimace as he gripped his left forearm with a clawlike right hand. Hermione instinctively flew to his side, her features contorted with concern as she looked questioningly into his eyes, but he only shook his head at them and offered her a stiff smile.   
  
"Forgive me, Miss Granger," he apologized, his voice slightly strained. "I cut myself the other night while dicing up some new ingredients. It was foolish of me, if I do say so myself. I suppose my age is finally catching up with me."   
  
Hermione laughed shortly at his joke, as she knew he wanted her to, but it was a hollow laugh that did not reach her eyes. It wasn't like Snape, the perfectionist Potions Master, to make such a careless mistake. She'd no idea what could have caused him such pain, or how he'd incurred such an injury, but it was obvious that he did not wish her to press him further about it. Whatever was bothering him, he wanted to deal with it alone, and she would grant him his privacy, as it was the least she could do for him after all he'd given to her.   
  
"Well, Professor," Hermione said seriously. "I have a lot of work to get done for tomorrow, so I'll just be going back to Gryffindor Tower, if that's alright with you." Snape appeared to visibly relax at her words, and gratitude shined behind the severity in his eyes.  
  
"Of course, child. I have much yet to do myself," he muttered darkly, then looked meaningfully into her eyes. "I'll send word to you the next time I need help with my work."   
  
Hermione smiled up at him, eyes sparkling. He returned her smile shortly before nodding politely at her, which she took as her cue to leave. After offering him a shy nod of her own, she gingerly exited the classroom. Snape heaved a relieved sigh after the door had been closed, which caused another shock of pain to rock his body. Still clutching his left arm to his chest, Snape stared unseeingly at the floor, his eyes growing wide with fearful trepidation as tears began to prick at their corners. He squeezed them tightly shut, causing the salty liquid to spill forth through his lashes.  
  
But when he reopened them, they were as cold and empty as they had ever been, black voids through which all life was indiscriminately absorbed. He clenched both his hands into fists and rushed to sweep through the small door that lay to the far right of the blackboard.   
  
His tears had dried.  
  
~*~  
  
Hermione's expression was pensive as she slowly made her way to Gryffindor Tower. What had happened to her Professor just moments ago? She was at a loss.  
  
It was her routine to go painstakingly over everything she could remember from her personal talks with Snape, as she mentally dubbed them. Each word that slipped past his lips, each gesture that illustrated his musings, each look that was directed her way, were all thoroughly analyzed by her during the long walk back to her Common Room.  
  
Try though she did, Hermione could find no answer to the question of Snape's sudden ailment. Her brow furrowed in frustration; she so hated to leave a question unanswered. How could such a practiced Potions Master cut himself while working? Unless...  
  
Unless he had lied to her about the cause of his injury.  
  
But would a Professor ever *lie* to a student? The idea was unheard of to Hermione, who had been told all her life by her teachers (in whose company she spent more time than in her parents', and so was most profoundly influenced by their words than by anyone else's) that one of their ilk couldn't possibly tell a lie to a student. Their job was to ingrain the seeds of knowledge into a child's unformed mind, so therefore everything they uttered *must* be the truth. Ergo, if one abided by their rules and believed everything they told them, the lives they would eventually lead would be good, honest, and above all, *correct*. As opposed to what, Hermione was never told.   
  
Then why would Professor Snape lie to her? If he had, he must have a very good reason for doing so, she concluded. So now she must determine what that reason could possibly be. She had heard of committing suicide by slitting one's wrists, but Snape had felt a pang in his arm, and only one, at that. She didn't think that a suicidal person would change their mind after having already completed half of the job; she also thought that Snape would know precisely where to make the fatal incision, had he the mind to do himself in. And, most importantly, her Professor, though ill-tempered and perpetually sour, did not strike her as the type of person who had so lost touch with life that they wished to remove themselves from it by their own hand.   
  
Ok, so a botched suicide attempt was ruled out ('thank goodness!'). On to the next possible reason...  
  
Oh! Perhaps, like her own father tended to do, Snape's hand had slipped while shaving and he'd accidentally sliced his arm but was too embarrassed to tell her that, being the proud man that he was. Of course, that hypothesis was just as fallible as the first: for, if given the choice between eliminating one's facial hair by the use of a potentially dangerous and fairly time-consuming device or by the quick and painless recitation of a simple charm, a wizard would almost certainly choose the latter.   
  
There was just no getting around it: Hermione Granger was stumped on this one. There was only one other reason she could think of that would explain mysterious shooting pains in a specific area of one's arm, but there was no way it could possibly be—  
  
'...Or could it? Oh, Gods.' Hermione stopped dead in her tracks, mouth open in horror. Luckily for her, the only witnesses to the strange scene of Gryffindor's little know-it-all gaping dumbly at her shoes beneath the portrait which led to the Hufflepuff Common Room were a couple of wayward ghosts floating their way down the hallway.  
  
Hermione was loath to even consider this, but it was too telling a solution to eliminate. In the final year of her Muggle schooling, she and the other students in her year had been obligated to take a health class for one semester. During this time, their teacher, Mrs. Moorelies, had lectured them briefly on the evils of taking drugs and given them some tips on how to avoid them at all costs. Intrigued, Hermione had done some follow-up research of her own on the subject, and had learned about every method of taking a drug as well as the names of the majority of the drugs themselves. She had also read that one who is inclined to take drugs usually does so to escape disturbing memories and to avoid the mental anguish that they bring.   
  
She had discovered that one of the most addictive and deadly drugs of all was heroine, which was most often taken through the veins by way of a syringe. A telltale sign of a heroine addict was painful-looking tracks running up their arms from having exhausted their veins with the drugged needle.   
  
In conclusion to this train of thought: what if Professor Snape was a heroine addict?  
  
But Hermione had heard from her peers who had grown up in the wizarding world from birth that their 'drugs' were largely taken in potion form, so, why would Snape, being a Master in the art of Potions, stoop to going out to the muggle world to get his, if in fact he took them at all?  
  
Did he take them at all?   
  
Well, she would have to find out; she would not allow her dear friend (for that was what she now considered Snape to be, though she doubted he returned the feeling) to be damaged, or, at worst, killed, in such a wretched and needless manner. She had to help him.  
  
Which would be difficult, seeing as she hadn't the slightest idea as to how to even broach the subject with him in the first place.   
  
'Don't worry, Professor, whatever happened in your past to make you do this in the first place, I will cure you of it! I don't yet know how, but I will save you from yourself,' she vowed, determination setting her jaw.   
  
If only Hermione knew how many people before her had made this same oath to rescue their significant others from the clutches of an evil they wholeheartedly embraced, and how many had inevitably failed.   
  
More so, however, it was a pity she didn't know its swearing was unnecessary in the first place. Such knowledge would have saved both her and her Potions Professor quite a bit of trouble indeed. 


	15. The Mark Of Integrity

Beneath the Surface  
  
Chapter the Fourteenthe: The Mark of Integrity  
  
"Well, if it isssn't our precioussss Potionssss Massster." The voice was cold enough to send shivers down Snape's spine, but he had long since learned to steel himself in the presence of its owner. "You're late again, Sssseverussss."  
  
Oh, how he hated the sound of his name hissed from those scaly lips. He bowed low to hide the disgust in his eyes as well as to show deference to the man before him. Each time he was forced to kiss that hated boot, scenes of the consequences of that ill-fated decision he'd made years ago flashed behind his eyes. The force of them made his head ache with regret. He had been a different person when he'd embraced the darkness, but the monstrous doings of that man haunted him always in his memory. Professor Snape could never seem to escape what young Severus had done to him.  
  
And it was when he was in the thick of the shadows and smoke that he felt as if his penance could never be repaid.  
  
"Forgive me... Master."  
  
~*~  
  
He didn't know it, but Hermione had been watching him when he'd winced in pain and grasped his left arm before swiftly exiting the Great Hall. He was usually so observant, aware of everything that was going on around him.   
  
She lowered her head sadly, pitying him for being a slave to his addiction. Poor Professor Snape.   
  
"Hermione?" asked a soft, now-familiar voice. She looked up to face its owner, who had taken the seat next to her as she always did since the two had become friends.   
  
"Oh, hullo, Ginny. What is it?" Hermione responded distractedly. The other girl frowned.   
  
"Well, I don't mean to pry, but... are you ill or something? You haven't been quite yourself lately." Genuine concern laced her voice, which made Hermione smile at her gratefully. No one had ever used that tone with her until she'd gotten to know Ginny Weasley.   
  
"No, I'm just fine, Gin. Just been working too hard, I guess."  
  
"Oh," the younger girl said doubtfully. "Alright then."  
  
They ate in companionable silence, half-listening to Harry and Ron as they gibbered and joked with each other. As they always did, the two boys finished their meals long before the two girls across from them. Today they'd decided to go back to their Common Room for the remainder of dinner so that Ron could show Harry a new Quidditch magazine that he'd just purchased, and the two bid the girls a cheery so long as they rushed out of the dining hall.  
  
Ginny had been waiting for the moment they'd leave her and Hermione to themselves before talking to the older girl again; she knew it was difficult for her to speak about personal things in front of the boys. She suspected she was the only person Hermione ever spoke to about such things, and was happy to be her confidante. They'd grown rather close in the past month or so, and were slowly coming to know more and more about each other. However, there were certain things, dark things, that she could never tell her friend, but she valued their newfound friendship immensely.  
  
And Hermione Granger was the only person who could help take her mind off of... him.   
  
"Hermione?" Ginny asked again. The older girl could tell by her tone that she was going to ask her the same thing she had earlier, only this time she expected the truth now that the boys were gone. Hermione had no intention of telling her everything, but she had wanted to give her more information. She could trust Ginny. She turned in her seat to face her, and the other girl eagerly did the same.   
  
"Ok," Hermione said, indicating that now was their time to talk honestly. The two giggled together, and Hermione leaned in closer to Ginny, her eyebrows furrowed as she searched for the proper thing to tell her. "You know how I have talks with Professor Snape sometimes?"  
  
"Mm-hmm," Ginny replied, nodding. Hermione had told her that she often went to visit their Potions Professor. Though she'd told her it was mainly to be able to ask him follow-up questions on the fascinating potions they did in class and the like, Ginny sensed that there were other reasons her friend was drawn to their Professor. Reasons she was all too familiar with, and it was because of that understanding that she wouldn't dare press Hermione for the truth.   
  
"Well," Hermione continued. "During our last discussion two nights ago, he suddenly grabbed his arm as if it hurt, and by the look on his face it must have been very painful. When I asked him what was wrong, he told me he'd hurt himself by accident while cutting up potions ingredients. I said I had work to do and left, because I knew he wanted me to. And just twenty or so minutes ago, I saw him grab his arm again as if it hurt and leave the Great Hall."   
  
"You were watching him?" Ginny asked quietly, her voice subtly suffused with meaning. Hermione looked away guiltily, her lips pressed together. Ginny smiled to herself. "I know, you're only worried about him."  
  
"Yes," Hermione agreed quickly, smiling in relief. She again faced Ginny with a look of conspiracy on her face. "So what do you think I should do? I know no one else would help him, and I don't want him to have to live in pain. I consider him my friend now. What should I do, Gin?"  
  
Hermione's eyes were intent as they bored into Ginny's, craving an answer. Ginny recognized her desperation, but knew not what she could say to allay the older girl's fears. However, she would be strong for her. She was fast learning how to revel in her own strength, to trust in her own power.   
  
"Maybe you should ambush him." Ginny said dryly, then chuckled at Hermione's blank expression before expounding on her words. "You know, after dinner, you sneak down to the dungeons, and wait in front of his room until he gets back. He'll be too surprised to be able to hide much from you."  
  
Ginny shrugged with the simplicity of her statement, but Hermione took it as a beacon of light shining through to one trapped in complete and chaotic darkness. Spy on him! That was a wonderful idea! Why hadn't she thought of it? So simple! So perfect. She opened her arms to Ginny to engulf the younger girl in a smothering embrace.  
  
"Oh, Ginny, you're a genius!" Hermione exclaimed. "That's just what I'm going to do."  
  
"Well, Hermione," Ginny managed to squeak out, squashed as her face was against her friend's shoulder. "It was only a suggestion. You know how Professor Snape is, I'd hate to be responsible for getting you into trouble with him."  
  
Hermione finally released the younger girl from her grasp to look at her seriously.  
  
"Oh, no, Ginny," she assured her. "You're not responsible for any of my actions, you were only trying to help. And I'm so used to him now that I think I could get around his temper if he should get angry with me." She smiled.  
  
"I-if you say so, Hermione," Ginny replied uncertainly. She hadn't thought her friend would actually go through with her suggestion; when she'd said it she had meant it as a joke, but Hermione obviously wasn't kidding. Ginny knew that when Hermione Granger was determined to accomplish something, nothing could stop her from at least trying her hardest to do so. So the most she could do was to wish her well and hope for the best.   
  
Just then, their half-finished plates vanished from the table along with everyone else's in the Great Hall. Dumbledore was rising to leave, which signified that dinner was now over. Hermione rose to her feet as well, bestowing Ginny with a slightly nervous yet resolute smile. Ginny returned it brightly, but concern for her friend still shone in her eyes.  
  
"Here I go. Wish me luck!" Hermione called to her from over her shoulder as she strode to exit the Hall.  
  
"Good luck! ...You're going to need it," Ginny murmured to herself, then sighed. The smile fell from her face when Hermione disappeared from her view. Why hadn't she just kept her big mouth closed? Maybe she wasn't as strong as she'd thought she was, but she prayed Hermione wouldn't have to pay for her weaknesses like she knew she would have to.  
  
~*~  
  
'Where *is* he?'   
  
Hermione had been waiting in the dungeons for her Professor for at least an hour now. She'd had to hide herself several times in the places where the stone walls converged with one another whenever she heard footsteps approaching, in case whoever was coming wasn't Snape. She couldn't see much from within the blackened shadows of her hiding spaces, but she saw enough to be able to tell that none of the people who passed her by even remotely resembled Snape.  
  
Irritated that he was taking so long to return, she brought her left wrist to her eyes for the umpteenth time to check her watch; it was 8:45p.m. She crept to the end of the hallway to peer stealthily around the corner. Still no sign of him. She sighed and returned to her post in front of the teacher's stairwell.  
  
What if he'd gone off on a... what did they call those things again? A bender! Hermione gulped down her terror at the thought.  
  
But then again, she remembered, that occurrence wasn't very likely; when people did those sorts of things, they usually didn't return to their work for weeks, and her punctual Professor wasn't the sort to miss even one class if he could help it. How long did it take for drug addicts to... what was that phrase again? Make a connection!   
  
Hermione sighed again and leaned against the wall, her large eyes upturned and her overall demeanor that of a pining lover.  
  
'Oh, my poor Professor. Leave that horrible life and come back to me...'   
  
Just as Hermione had thought those words, a brisk sweeping of coarse material could be heard making its way down the stairwell across from where she stood. No tapping of footfalls on stone accompanied the sound. Hermione's heart rose in her throat and a swarm of butterflies fluttered to and fro in her stomach; it was him. Even the sound of his movements were unmistakably distinctive.  
  
Professor Snape had to brace his weary body with a shaky arm on each side of the stone archway of the stairwell when he reached the hallway. He had not been expecting—even in the furthest corners of his mind—to be met by Miss Granger, who was rather inelegantly gawking at him, upon his return. He stared at her for a long moment as if he couldn't believe his eyes, his lips parted in astoundment. Finally, he pressed them together and blinked sharply at her, as if he'd finally registered just who she was in his mind.   
  
"Miss Granger," he ground out, knowing he hadn't the energy for yelling at the moment. "Why are you here?"  
  
The question was exceedingly simplistic; even Hermione in all her Gryffindor single-mindedness could sense that he was too burnt out, both physically and mentally, to articulate himself.  
  
"I," Hermione breathed, taken aback by his obvious exhaustion. Snape, while always rather pallid in complexion, was so white she could almost see his veins beneath his skin. He was swaying slightly where he stood, and his eyes were dull with fatigue. He looked deathly ill, and her heartbeat quickened as her worry for him escalated. "I saw you leave at dinner. I wanted to wait for you..." She trailed off, looking up at him with concern in her eyes.   
  
The depth of it caught him off guard. But he was far too weak to analyze the child's nonsense right now, and so sneered down at her contemptuously in an attempt to frighten her off and out of his way. The only things he needed right now were a large, comfortable bed and a vial of Dreamless Sleep potion.   
  
"And why would you want to do that?" he asked her coldly, his voice deadened by his body's depletion. "Since when did my personal business become your concern?"  
  
His scorn steeled Hermione's anger; of course it was her business to help another human being who needed it! Whether he knew it or not, her Professor was on death's door, and it was up to her, as the only person who recognized his state for what it was, to steer him away from it. Her eyes were defiant as they squinted up into his.   
  
"Since your first order of business became centered on killing yourself!" she all but shouted at him. What was left of his color drained from his face, and his fine, black brows slowly knit together as he stared at the child with a look of incredulity in his eyes. After a long moment, he sighed softly, resignedly, and a frail hand rose to massage his temple.  
  
"Miss Granger, I think you and I should have a little talk," he told her. Hermione nodded.  
  
"I think so, Professor," she agreed somberly.  
  
Snape motioned for her to follow him before sweeping down the familiar route to the Potions room; she couldn't help but notice that his gait was far less fearsome than usual, but perhaps that was because he was clutching his robes to his body rather than allowing them to billow freely about it. He murmured several incantations under his breath before opening the door, and, once again, allowed her to precede him into the room.   
  
At least the drugs hadn't affected his sense of civility, Hermione noted, a sad smile gracing her lips.  
  
Once inside the room, Snape cast the 'Lumos' charm and wearily pushed the door closed. His charm only offered a meager amount of light to halo the front of the room; when a witch or wizard's constitution was weak, so, too, was their magic. He grimaced at his insubstantial effort and rolled his eyes bitterly as if to say 'this is the best I can do right now'. Hermione only smiled forgivingly at him.  
  
He turned away from her and, with a brittle groan that he'd meant not to be audible, settled uncomfortably on the edge of his desk, as he often did during their discussions. But this was not to be one of those easy, affable conversations; no, they had serious business to speak of tonight.   
  
"So, Granger," he began in a unemotional, interrogative tone that Hermione was wholly unused to. "Tell me everything that you know, every single, tiny detail."  
  
Hermione's eyebrows drew together in confusion. 'I thought they were supposed to break down when confronted, or bargain...but *this*...'  
  
"Well, I..." she began uncertainly, suddenly afraid to confront him. "I don't know the details, Professor, but I do know the... your problem." Now it was his turn to be perplexed.  
  
"My 'problem'?" His normal tone of voice was beginning to infuse with the cold, clinical one he reserved for informers, saboteurs and the like.   
  
"Yes. You know," she shot him a meaningful look, which he failed to respond to. Was he playing dumb? That was unlike him. Why wasn't he screaming denials at her? Hermione took a deep breath, and braced herself for the full onslaught of his rage. She was going to have to spell it out for him. "Your heroin addiction. Sir." She gulped.  
  
"...My WHAT?!" Snape exploded after a very tense few seconds of total silence, no trace of stolidity in his voice. Hermione had never seen him open his eyes so wide; along with his ghastly pallor, he put her in mind of a ghost.  
  
She took a hesitant step backwards, but her sudden withdrawal from him only served to encourage Snape's curiosity, and he advanced upon her with renewed enthusiasm. She continued to back away from him until she found herself stopped by the wall across from the teacher's entrance; she was trapped, and Snape's merciless black eyes were only bare inches from her own. Then the strangest thing happened.  
  
She felt a tickling sensation in an isolated corner of her brain, a feeling she knew she'd never be able to explain to anyone who hadn't experienced it before. It was as if her mind were being invaded by invisible strings fashioned from the most diaphanous thread, as if tiny tendrils of light, itself, were probing her subconscious by way of her eyes. And it seemed their source was the very pupils of Professor Snape's deep, dark eyes.   
  
She fluttered her eyelids madly so as to drive out this unfathomable force, her mind going blank with the effort of it. This seemed to have worked, and when she opened her eyes again, it was to face a thoroughly dissatisfied Snape. She furrowed her brows in confusion, while he narrowed his eyes at her.  
  
"Miss Granger," he purred in a tone that was not to be trusted if one wanted to keep their information to themself. Of course, Hermione had no experience in the art of espionage, nor had she any need to. Thus far, anyway. "I want you to explain yourself in as thorough a manner as is possible for you. Step by step, girl."  
  
Hermione knew from experience that when Professor Snape wanted answers from you, he wanted them NOW, and she was in no position (literally and figuratively) to deny him them. She wetted her lips with her tongue before she spoke, taking a deep breath.  
  
"Well, Professor," she began. "If you'll recall, at the end of our last discussion together, you suddenly grabbed your arm as if it was hurting you, when nothing actually happened that I could see." She paused for effect.  
  
"Yes?" he prompted her in a dangerously impatient tone. She rushed to continue.  
  
"Yes, and I must admit that seeing you in such pain, um, worried me, especially when I didn't know what was wrong. So I did a lot of thinking about what could possibly cause such a strange injury, and I happened to make the connection with that and things a muggle teacher told me about, er...drugs, and drug addicts." She was becoming increasingly nervous with Snape's close proximity to her person, so the rest of her explanation spilled from her mouth in a hurried jumble. "To make a long story short, I recalled a particular drug that is taken into the veins by way of a needle, so I put two and two together, and came to the conclusion that..." She sighed in remorse, then looked directly into her Professor's captivating eyes. "That you are a heroin addict, Professor."  
  
"I see," was all he replied with. Whatever he thought of her words was completely concealed by an impenetrable mask settling over his features.  
  
The tense silence he kept was baffling to Hermione; she had just confronted him with her knowledge, and all he'd said was 'I see'?! He must be trying very hard to hide his misery from her. Her heart went out to him, and she took a step closer before bursting into sniffles (it would have taken far more to make Hermione Granger shed a tear), tiny fingers rushing up to obscure her face from his view.   
  
"Oh, Professor!" she wailed, causing him to nearly fall backwards in his shock at her sudden change in behavior. "How awful it must be for you, to have to go out searching for your next... fix, to have to be a slave to that vile substance, to not know whether the next time will be the last time!" She had gotten so upset that her words became punctuated by gulps and sniffles. "I'm so sorry you have to live like this! I'm so..." Here she had to gulp in a breath, as she'd lost all of her air to her emotional exertions. "Sorry!"  
  
Professor Snape just stared at her, his eyes round and his mouth clamped shut. And he'd thought the girl was merely idiosyncratic.   
  
However, his posture relaxed considerably when he discerned the point of her tirade: the girl hadn't the slightest idea of his other identity; she merely thought he was hooked on drugs.   
  
Drugs! He almost laughed out loud in relief.  
  
For certain, he'd had experience (rather, a great deal of it) with the toxic substances, both muggle and magical, but he was never fool enough to believe the sun and the moon existed within their intoxicating thrall. Imagine, he, Severus Snape, addicted to drugs, and muggle ones, at that! His face froze, then contorted in revulsion.   
  
'A MUGGLE addiction? ME?!'  
  
"Now, see here, Granger." He rose to his full height, folding his arms over his chest and peering haughtily down at Hermione. The snuffles and gasps immediately ceased, and dry eyes rose to meet his own. He sneered. "It would take a truly naive and gullible person indeed to come to such a ridiculous conclusion." His expression grew pensive as he went over what she'd said. "Are you saying that you thought my arm was bothering me because I had needle tracks dredged into it?"  
  
Hermione nodded mutely, her eyes wide and wary of the new direction he was taking their conversation to. So he *wasn't* a heroin addict? Oops...  
  
Snape returned the nod absently, his head tilted downwards, and she could tell that the wheels in his head were grinding away, debating whether or not he should divulge something important to her. His eyes flicked to her once again, and though they were extremely skeptical, his lips parted in preparation to speak.  
  
"If only it were that simple."   
  
The cryptic statement intrigued Hermione, and she raised her eyebrows, urging him to elaborate. He averted his eyes from her, and if she had been looking, she would have noticed that he was clutching his left arm tightly to himself with his right.   
  
"You see, Miss Granger, what I have embedded into this arm is more destructive, and affects a great many more people, both muggle and magical, than any drug could ever come close to wreaking."  
  
"What do you mean?" Hermione's voice was tremulous. She couldn't take her eyes from his tortured form, nor could she keep them from darting to and from the arm he clasped so tightly to his breast. She dared to step closer to him. "May I... may I see?"  
  
Snape's head snapped back to her, his features incensed with outrage. She winced from the power he radiated, but kept her eyes trained on his. With a pained sigh, his expression became neutral once again, and not a little bit melancholy. He nodded his consent to her query, and beckoned her to him with long, elegant fingers. She obeyed at once, her pace steady as she approached him.  
  
Ever so slowly, he rolled up the long black sleeve that covered his left arm until it gathered in folds just above his elbow. Her eyes were riveted upon the arm, so she did not see that his were likewise fixated upon her face, absorbing and analyzing her slightest reaction to what he was showing her. He didn't consciously know what he was doing, or why he was doing it. A voice in the back of his mind—his worn-out conscience, most likely—whispered that perhaps he would soon come to regret the boundaries he was crossing tonight, but he was far too tired to think through the consequences of his actions with this child.  
  
The arm was long and sinewy, its color as pale as his face, but the back of it was facing upwards so Hermione could not see what afflicted it. Finally, he rotated the limb so she could view it's underside, but as she took in it's expanse of white, delicately vein-lined flesh, she saw nothing out of the ordinary. She frowned as she studied it.   
  
And that was when she saw it.   
  
The hazy, translucent outline of a human skull inlaid with two serpents was centered perfectly on his upper forearm. The tattoo had been expertly drawn, and she wondered first why he would wish it to be so ill-defined and second why he had chosen such a nefarious design to be engraved into his skin in the first place. Still, it was a beautiful brand, fairly shimmering with the promise of darker pleasures; grotesquely hypnotizing. She smiled at it.  
  
And he pulled the arm from her view, wrenching his sleeve back down to cover it once again. She looked up at him with wounded eyes as if he had hurt her. His gaze was tinged with regret, and she realized that he had been watching her face the entire time he'd bared himself to her.   
  
"Why?" she asked him simply. "What's wrong with it?"   
  
"Everything," he replied, his voice void of emotion. Then he favored her with a rare, kind smile. "Things that I will not tell you of tonight. Perhaps... someday. When you can understand what it all means." The tentative promise surprised even himself.   
  
Even more surprisingly, Hermione accepted it with a gratified nod and then let it lie.   
  
"Alright, Professor."   
  
They stared at each other for a long time, digesting their words and understanding their shared silence.  
  
Then, as if she'd craved the lighter air that usually permeated their interchanges, a mischievous grin spread Hermione's lips and created sparkles in her eyes. Snape inwardly let out a relieved breath at her abrupt change of pace and smirked, willingly rising to her bait.  
  
"Whatever that thing is," she teased, motioning to his left arm, "I'm glad that it's not heroin tracks." Snape rolled his eyes mirthfully.  
  
"Silly girl," he taunted her wryly. "The very idea of a Snape addicted to heroin, or any other drug, for that matter, is ludicrous." The snobbish demeanor he put on made Hermione giggle.   
  
"So you do know what it is," she mocked him playfully. She gathered from their discussions that he was a pureblooded wizard, and these people were notoriously clueless about any and everything that pertained to the muggle way of life. Snape sneered down at her again, but there was no trace of malice in his eyes.  
  
"Of *course* I know what it is," he told her in a condescending tone. "I know a great deal more about the muggle world than you would think, Granger."  
  
Hermione's grin faltered at his use of her last name; it seemed to her that two people as familiar with each other as she and Snape were should call each other by their first names. Though she knew what his answer would be to such a suggestion, she got up the courage to make it anyway.   
  
"Professor, what would you think about us... referring to each other by our first names now?" She cowered under his glare; never had she seen an eyebrow rise so high on one's forehead. "Only in private, of course," she added in a small voice.  
  
"I would think, *Miss Granger*, that such actions would be highly improper," he assured her. "Especially in private."   
  
She wanted to ask him what he meant by that, but his tone and expression brooked no argument, so she only lowered her head with a sigh.  
  
"Very well, Professor," she sulked. But she promised herself in that moment that someday, she and Professor Snape would be on a first name basis with one another. The same 'someday' that he had promised to explain his tattoo to her would be the day when she would call him Severus.   
  
Snape rolled his eyes again, amused by her cheek. No one, child or adult, had ever dared to be so open and honest with him, so he didn't know how he was supposed to deal with her impertinent behavior. When and if it escalated, he would see to stifling it, but for now, it was far too enjoyable to provoke her fiery temper. Not to mention the fact that he was far too fatigued at the moment to know what to do with her.  
  
...Yes! He'd forgotten that he was absolutely exhausted! Better get rid of the girl now before she asked to stay the night. He smirked darkly to himself at the thought, which led to others that severely frightened him when connected to the child standing before him. He frowned and cleared his throat, which Hermione recognized as his way of either changing the direction of or ending a conversation, so she sobered and looked into his eyes expectantly. He offered her a tight-lipped smile. She beamed back at him. He averted his eyes and cleared his throat again.  
  
"I must beg forgiveness, Miss Granger, for I am thoroughly exhausted from my... outing, and would like to get some rest. Would you mind terribly—"  
  
"Oh!" She burst out, rushing towards him. Snape inched away from her, but she failed to notice his agitation. "Of course, Professor! I'm so sorry, I'd forgotten how ill you were."  
  
"Ill?" he repeated, offended by the term.  
  
"Well, peaked, then," she amended ebulliently. "Well, Professor, I'll leave you to tend to yourself. Make sure to get lots of rest, drink lots of tea, and think about taking a day off from teaching tomorrow!"  
  
"Miss Granger, I assure you, I'll be just fine. I'm merely a bit tired," he insisted, taken aback by the girl's motherly instincts. After all, he'd barely experienced them with his own mother.  
  
"Nonsense, Professor, you look positively drained! If I didn't know better, I'd say a vampire got to you," Hermione babbled pointlessly, as she tended to do when struck by feelings of overwhelming care for another.   
  
"Miss Granger," Snape entreated wearily, putting a hand to his head. "I do so *hate* to be rude, but will you please get out?"  
  
Hermione laughed heartily at that statement; she knew from his tone that his cruel choice of wording was intended to be harmless. "Yes, Professor. Be sure to get a good night's sleep," she reminded him. He nodded tiredly, knowing that the best way to get the child out of his dungeons was to appease her.  
  
"I'll do that. Good night, child."  
  
"Good night, Professor," she returned tenderly, and, after allowing her eyes to linger on his left arm for one last moment, she turned and left the dungeons as covertly as she had entered them.   
  
Snape too stared at the arm with the mark inscribed into it for a long time after she had left, contemplating what he had told her about it and trying to decide whether or not he should have said anything at all. But alas, he was far too drained of spirit to come to a resolution on the matter. The matter of the child. The matter of the girl. Did the girl matter to him at all? Perhaps she had come to matter a bit more than he would have liked her to.  
  
Gods, but he was unintelligibly exhausted. No time like the present to give in to the temptation of that big, comfortable bed and that nice, soothing potion.   
  
~*~  
  
'Well, he's not a heroin addict. *That's* a relief! What a silly thing for me to have thought. Gods, I can be so stupid sometimes! When I get carried away with an idea...'   
  
Hermione went over her previous concerns about and subsequent discussion with Professor Snape as she made her way back to Gryffindor Tower. She had grown so accustomed to the chill air which constantly flowed in the dungeons that the castle above them made her feel rather warm. She tucked a finger into the neck of her robe and tugged to loosen it. She was replaying the bit of their conversation where Snape scoffed at the very notion of him being addicted to any substance when a perturbing thought struck her.  
  
'If he's not been going out to get drugs, then where has he been going when the pain hits him?'   
  
His words of just a short time ago echoed in her mind: "I am thoroughly exhausted from my outing." What outing?  
  
She had agreed not to ask Snape about the story behind his tattoo until he was ready to tell it to her, but she'd never even thought about where he went when he was bothered by it. Though it hadn't consciously occurred to her, she knew that he left the school whenever it flared up (however a tattoo could do such a thing; perhaps it had been incorrectly applied?).   
  
Maybe it was because of her increasing sympathy for him, or maybe it was due to sheer Gryffindor curiosity, but Hermione decided then and there that she *had* to know where Snape went and what he was doing whenever he fled the castle. Dangerous as it may prove to be, Hermione would follow through with her plan of that afternoon to spy on her mysterious Professor. She *would* know what he was up to, if not the reasons for it.  
  
Ginny Weasley was far more intelligent than her elder brother gave her credit for. 


	16. Ardor Most Foul

Beneath the Surface  
  
Chapter the Fifteenthe: Ardor Most Foul  
  
She had taken to watching his comings and goings out of a secluded window which was situated in the small alcove where the stairs to the Gryffindor girls' dorm were split into two. It was a very pleasant little spot, had a small window seat upon which lay an old but comfortable faded red cushion.   
  
The window faced the foreground of Hogwarts, and if she reached it in time, she was able to see Professor Snape striding down the long path which led to the entrance gates of the school. As the gates were quite far from the castle itself, Hermione couldn't make out where he went when he passed them.   
  
She had made a plan—this time without Ginny—to one day follow him in secret all the way to his ultimate destination. How she would accomplish such a feat without his noticing her presence, she did not yet know, but she knew she'd figure out a way. Hours of intense deliberation would see to that, as it always did when she was facing a difficult quandary.  
  
After having seen him fly from the castle quite a few times in the last month (during which she realized that he had been doing this for far longer than she had been aware of), she came to find a pattern in what had previously seemed to be an erratic schedule. If he left sometime during dinner in the Great Hall, which was when he usually chose to flee the school, she could expect his return at anywhere from 9 to 11 o'clock at night. But if he left either very late in the evening or very early in the morning, Hermione would see the inky speck of his form slowly making its way up the expanse of grassy field to the main doors of Hogwarts just after sunrise broke the dusk.   
  
She was always awake before the sun made its first appearance of the day, and had begun to creep to her window (for it surely was hers more than anyone else's, if only due to frequency of use) every morning when she saw the first rays of light brightening the darkened sky. Sometimes he was there, more often, he was not. But coming to look out the window each day just in case he was there made her feel closer to him. Connected.  
  
~*~  
  
Snape hated being called away late in the evening; that meant he wouldn't get any sleep before the next day's classes, and so would be in a very disagreeable mood to the students therein. At least it kept the dullards quiet, though. He didn't think he could bear it if they were as noisy as they usually were on one of his 'headache days', as he and Dumbledore would refer to them in public.   
  
The only good thing about the early morning meetings was that he was able to walk the grounds of Hogwarts as the sun was coming over the distant mountains which surrounded it. When he had been a student here, he'd very much enjoyed getting up before dawn to stroll about the castle and watch the breathtaking affects daybreak would have upon the bucolic Scottish landscape.   
  
So, if not for these clandestine gatherings, he wouldn't have any time in which to enjoy this spectacular view.   
  
'How's that for staying positive, Albus?' His lip curled sardonically at the thought. The sun had just arisen to the point where it could shine directly into his face, fairly blinding his vision. He held a pale hand over his brow, shielding his eyes from the unaccustomed glare. 'Who's that, then?'  
  
As his eyes had been traveling the expanse of the castle, which gleamed ivory under the morning light, he'd happened to catch a tiny dot of red, upon which was planted an obscene amount of ginger hair. A small crease appeared between his eyebrows; he always scanned the windows of the school on the mornings when he was traversing the grounds, and he had never before seen anyone behind them besides Filch or one of the other professors. There had been the occasional errant student once or twice, but they'd never been calmly looking out any of the windows so early in the day.   
  
Watching him.  
  
"Granger," he whispered aloud to the air. He'd known the person's identity even before recognizing the telltale hair; who else would be so concerned about his activities, or even know where he'd be at this time? It was uncanny. But not unwelcome.   
  
In truth, it felt good to return to his home (for that was what Hogwarts was to him for the majority of the year) after such a trying ordeal and see someone waiting up for him, someone actually caring about what he did. Never mind that it was an ingratiating, willful, purely Gryffindorian sliver of a student.   
  
As he got closer to the school, he could make Hermione out much more clearly; clear enough to discern the worry in her face. He inhaled a deep gust of air, his body relaxing as he slowly exhaled it. It was too early for school, therefore, it was too early to have to make the effort to treat the girl as his student. Or so his over exhausted sense of logic pointed out to him.   
  
Snape met the girl's eyes with as broad a smile as he could manage, considering his worn out body and unfamiliarity with the expression. Hermione returned it tenfold, her big eyes sparkling with blessed relief. He saw her mouth start to form rapid syllables, but he was too far down to hear her. He shook his head at her and gestured to his ears. She appeared pensive for a moment, trying to decide whether or not she wanted to yell down to him and risk awakening the other girls in her dorm, who would no doubt question her intensely on why she was having a shouting match with that mean git Professor Snape so early in the morning. Not a good idea.  
  
Perhaps she'd use a rudimentary form of sign language with him, that was it. She rolled up the pajama sleeve of her left arm and pointed to it's forearm with her right hand. Her eyebrows raised in question.  
  
Snape knew what she was asking, even if she didn't, and unconsciously touched his tattoo as he nodded his head affirmatively several times. Hermione let out a relieved breath of air and pressed both of her hands over her heart. Snape raised his eyebrow at the gesture curiously, thinking that it was a strange way for the child to convey her assurance of his safety, but he only smiled up at her and nodded again.   
  
The sun was fast climbing higher in the sky, so now the whole of his body was illuminated by its glare. He had never been uncomfortable under direct sunlight, it made him feel as if he were on display. He looked up at Hermione again and, remembering a motion muggles used to indicate the time, rather awkwardly put a finger to his wrist as if there were a watch there. After rolling his eyes at how stupid he must appear, he removed the finger to use it to point first to his chest and then to the entrance doors of Hogwarts, which lay just beyond where he was standing. Hermione again nodded her understanding, albeit reluctantly, and waved an effusive farewell to him with both of her tiny hands. The thought of what would happen if anyone were to see this exchange between him and the girl made his complexion pale, so he offered her a curt bow of the head and hurried into the school.   
  
'I feel like an absolute imbecile...'  
  
'I feel like I could fly without a broom!'  
  
~*~  
  
Hermione could barely contain her elation throughout the rest of that day. She was fidgety, inattentive, and there was a faraway expression on her face even during her classes. Her distraction was so obvious that even Harry and Ron had taken notice of it, and the two resolved to question her about it at dinner that evening.   
  
"'Mione?"   
  
"Her-miiiii-oneeeee?"   
  
The boys were waving their hands in front of her face in an effort to capture her attention, much to the chagrin of Ginny, who was trying to eat in peace. When Harry snapped his fingers inches from her eyes, she finally blinked sharply and focused on the flustered faces of her friends.  
  
"Sorry, guys," she said in an overly bright tone. "What is it?"  
  
"What's with *you*?" Ron asked baldly. Harry shot him a reproachful look, but when he faced Hermione again, his expression was all sympathy and seriousness.   
  
"You seem really... not yourself today," he said kindly.   
  
"What do you mean?" Hermione asked absently, her attention already diverting to the Teacher's Table. Snape was gazing despondently down at his plate, absorbed in pushing the food on it around with his fork. His shoulders rose and fell in the tiniest of sighs. Hermione sighed along with him herself. Ginny gulped down her pumpkin juice, praying that the boys wouldn't follow the line of her gaze.   
  
"THAT's what we mean! Your head's always off in space lately, and it's... well, it's weird, Hermione!" Ron burst out, banging his hand flat on the table. Harry placed one of his own hands against Ron's chest to still him; as always, Harry was the only person who could calm Ron down. Ginny exhaled silently, glad for her friend that her brother and Harry were still as clueless as ever.  
  
"He is right though, 'Mione," Harry said gently. "Do you see what we mean now?"  
  
"I suppose," she conceded grudgingly, lower lip stuck out in a pout. "It's just 'cause I'm overworked."  
  
"Then stop working!" Ron exclaimed, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Hermione glared at him darkly, a look which always subdued his enthusiasm. Worked wonders this time as well.   
  
"Listen, I just—" She sighed, not knowing how she could explain away her strange behavior. Then, a brilliant idea struck her, one so devious that she knew there was no way they'd ever argue with her. She flashed them her meanest look, one that even Snape could be proud of. "It's that time of the month, ok? Now shut up about it!"  
  
Her friends blushed and looked down at their food in embarrassment, mumbling 'sorry' and 'we didn't know'. Hermione smirked to herself and rolled her eyes at Ginny, who was trying her best not to giggle aloud. The two friends had confided in each other, as young girlfriends will do, that neither of them had begun menstruating yet, but they didn't feel the need to discuss such matters with the boys. What business was it of theirs, anyway? Quite.  
  
"So, Ron, did you get the new Quidditch Queries Quarterly yet?" Harry asked his friend awkwardly.  
  
"Er, not yet, Harry. Sorry. But I have gotten the new..."   
  
And off the boys went on yet another discussion of their one true love, quidditch. Predictable lot, the two of them were. Hermione and Ginny rolled their eyes at one another in amusement and returned to their dinners. Unlike Harry and Ron, they liked to eat their meals in silence, as whatever they usually discussed with another were not things they'd want the boys to hear. Plus, both of their mothers had instilled impeccable table manners into their minds during their childhoods; though, to watch Ron eat, one would never know he and Ginny were related, despite the rather obvious physical resemblance they bore to one another.  
  
And so the meal passed, Harry and Ron bantering back and forth, Ginny primly eating her meal, and Hermione studying Professor Snape.   
  
Ginny had been about to ask Hermione why she wasn't eating anything when the older girl abruptly leapt from her seat, her eyes fixed intently on Professor Snape, who had also risen from his spot at the Teacher's Table and was swiftly striding to exit the Great Hall through the teachers' door.   
  
"Hermione?" Ginny whispered to her, gently pulling on the sleeve of her robe. "Where's he going?"  
  
"I don't know, Ginny, but I have to follow him," came the resolute reply. Ginny started to protest, but Hermione ignored her and hurried to leave the Hall by way of the students' doors at the back of the room. Harry and Ron had finally noticed Hermione's disquiet when she'd suddenly fled their table, and gave Ginny questioning looks, to which she could only shrug dejectedly before bowing her head over her plate. The boys then faced each other, twin expressions of complete confusion etched over their features.   
  
"Now what's she on about?"   
  
"I don't know, Ron, I just don't know."  
  
They held one another's gaze for a moment longer before going back to finish their dinners voraciously and without a care. Only Ginny continued to sit in silence and worry for their good friend Hermione.  
  
~*~  
  
Though she was concerned about him, Hermione was thankful that Snape seemed to be in such a desperate rush, for he didn't take any notice of her as she followed a safe distance behind him. Hermione had placed a silencing charm upon her shoes (a rather advanced spell she was proud to have done correctly) so he wouldn't hear the shrill sound of their tapping.  
  
He did not run, but the pace at which he walked was so fast that his voluminous robes flew out behind him like great bat wings; and he wondered why the students compared him to the animal. It was hard for Hermione to keep up with him, but she summoned her stamina and managed to do so through the winding path he took around the castle and finally out of a side door which led to the grounds. Hermione waited about thirty seconds or so before going through the door after him.  
  
When they'd gotten outside, where only scattered groups of trees dotted the immense stretch of grassy field, it was much more difficult to hide herself from him. He seemed so familiar with this route that he did not once look back over his shoulder, as he usually did; still, Hermione was not so foolish as to think that he might not sense her presence behind him. When Snape started down the long dirt path that led to the entrance gates of the school, Hermione darted stealthily from tree to tree in her efforts to remain hidden from him.  
  
And she would have completely gotten away with her spying act if she weren't such an impulsive person. When Snape finally reached the gates, he murmured a spell to open them and then strode past them. After turning round to close them again with more whispered words, he wrapped his arms tightly around his torso and closed his eyes. It all clicked for Hermione when his lips parted to cast the Apparation spell; she had (of course) read about it in a book that she'd purchased on the casting of more advanced spells, and knew that if she allowed him to cast it now she would never find out where he was going. That was why she hadn't been able to see where he was going from her window once he got past the gates: because he Apparated to his destination!   
  
With a startled gasp, Hermione emerged from behind the last tree on the path and ran as fast as she could to the gates. She had been going so fast that her body crashed to a halt against them, and she had to grip the bars with her fingers to keep from falling backwards. Snape's eyes snapped wide open upon hearing the jolting clatter, and when they focused on her form they narrowed in disbelief.   
  
"M-miss Granger?" His body tensed as he began to get a grasp on the current situation. "What in Hades are you doing here?"  
  
"Yes, it's me," Hermione replied dumbly. "I know this looks just dreadful, but I... I had to know where you were going." Snape's eyes darkened considerably, his nostrils flaring in anger. A tremor of terror ran up her spine, but she didn't dare move and clutched the bars so tightly her knuckles turned white.   
  
"Miss Granger, this is highly inappropriate. I order you to go back to your Common Room, right now!" he snarled.  
  
"You order me?" she repeated, piqued by his sudden lapse into authoritarian. Before she could go on, however, Snape drew closer to the bars, peering furiously into her face through them.  
  
"Yes, I order you! Now, get out of here, girl! I've had about enough of your—"   
  
All of a sudden, Snape winced in pain and doubled over, clutching his left arm with a strained, white hand. Hermione's deeply hurt feelings were overruled by fear for him; she wished she knew what was wrong with him so she could at least try to help make it stop.   
  
"P-please, Miss Granger." He was trying desperately to make his voice sound dispassionate, but his eyes, as they bored into hers from underneath a fringe of black hair, were openly begging. "L-let me go. I h-have... to go."  
  
A solitary tear slid down Hermione's cheek; though she wanted more than anything to get him back into the school, she knew that she could not refuse his plea. She nodded her head, not trusting any words to slide unhindered past the lump that had developed in her throat, and squeezed her eyes shut as if in pain, leaning her forehead against the bars.   
  
"T-thank you," he whispered, the powerful aching of his body less evident in his voice. "I'll be fine. I promise you."  
  
Hermione felt long, cold fingers coil around her own between the bars of the gate. Her heart swelled almost painfully at the contact; never in all the time that she'd been his student had Professor Snape ever touched her hands, not even to guide her movements during Potions. And now he was holding her hand in his, and it felt like he had her very heart clenched within his fingers.  
  
But when she opened her eyes again, the fingers were gone, and so was he.   
  
~*~  
  
As she waited for Snape's return deep in the dungeons, Hermione made her decision: she was going to tell him how she felt. This little charade could no longer exist between them. She had no idea what would come of her admission, but it had been hidden for far too long, and she owed him the truth of her intentions. There would be no more lies.  
  
He'd held her hand today; would he have done that if he didn't return her feelings at all, not even a little bit? The action had been more than enough to steel Hermione's resolve. Enough was enough, he had to know. She didn't know how much longer she would be able to stand being in his presence as it was without being able to tell him how much she cared for him, without being allowed to touch him. The time had come.   
  
Hermione let out a shaky, determined breath. She hoped she would be able to confess her feelings in an adult enough manner for him to even consider them.  
  
"Good evening, child."   
  
The familiar, now beloved, silky voice startled her, but she quickly regained her composure and smiled widely at its owner. He looked so tired and pale, Hermione noted sadly. He was leaning against the wall opposite where she was standing, and she wondered just how long he'd been there before approaching him.   
  
"'Evening, Professor. ...Are you alright?" she asked quietly, her voice concerned. Snape allowed the sentiment to wash over his frayed nerves, calming him. He gave her a small smile.  
  
"I'm perfectly fine, as I promised. Just a bit tired is all," he said softly. She couldn't help blushing at the mention of his earlier promise to her. So he had taken it seriously, that was a good sign. Hermione cleared her throat, unconsciously mimicking his way of introducing a new subject.  
  
"Professor, would it be alright if I spoke with you about something for a moment?" She waited nervously while he appeared to consider her request.  
  
"Very well," he finally sighed. "Go ahead."   
  
"Um..." The full weight of what she was going to say fell upon her heavily, but she would not let herself be stopped now. "May we talk about this in the classroom? I, er, don't want anyone else to hear it."  
  
Snape was far too weary to take what she'd said as strange, so he nodded his head in agreement and started down the hallway to the Potions entrance (teacher's, of course), beckoning her to follow him. The silencing charm she'd placed upon her shoes earlier in the day had long since worn off, and she was very conscious of the way their clicking resounded in the stone corridor. After Snape uttered some words under his breath, the door opened and they passed through it, Snape closing it behind him and leaning his back against it tiredly once inside.  
  
Hermione stared at him blankly for a long time, until he finally sighed and raised an eyebrow pointedly. She leapt to attention.  
  
"Oh! Sorry, sir," she started. 'Okay, Hermione, now act grown-up. You can do this.'   
  
"Sometime tonight, if you would?" he asked sardonically. She shot him a withering look, which he returned to her fivefold; ok, not a good way to start out here. She started to walk closer to him, tilting her head in an almost teasing manner.  
  
"I'm not going to ask you where you've been, I know you said you'd tell me in time. I suppose I just wanted to... talk to you a bit tonight." Yes, that's how she'd start out, with the talking they always did.   
  
"Was there anything in particular, girl? Because I'm rather anxious to get to sleep before morning, if you don't mind." He rolled his eyes at her wounded expression. "Oh, don't look that way, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings." He had never said that particular statement to anyone before (or felt the need to, as far as he could recall), and it sounded foreign coming from his mouth. The girl seemed to be buying it though, judging by the smile on her face, and for that he was grateful. Now to get her out of his rooms...  
  
"Professor?" Hermione asked him quietly, a coy lilt to her voice which, combined with her close proximity to him, was making Snape very uncomfortable. Was he so tired that he hadn't even noticed her approach? Yes, she was far too close for comfort now, standing barely five inches away from where he stood!  
  
He was beginning to suspect through the haze of his mind that she was doing these things on purpose.   
  
"Yes, what do you want, Miss Granger?" he asked her, not bothering to hide the suspicion from his voice. He was regarding her skeptically from the corners of slanted eyes. Hermione smiled at his question, as if it gave her a much-needed opening.  
  
"I want to hear more about you," she said insouciantly, her eyes sparkling. "In all of our talks, I've gone on and on about myself..."  
  
"You certainly have," he cut in sarcastically. She continued on as if she hadn't heard him.  
  
"...and you've barely spoken a word." Here the girl looked away from Snape, suddenly seeming to have gotten shy of him. "I wish you'd tell me more about yourself. I want to get to know you."  
  
"But you do know me, Miss Granger," Snape said, knowing full well what she meant, but wishing fervently for her to cease her ingress into his mind. "I am your Potions Professor, I teach you how to bottle fame and to brew glory."   
  
Hermione did not respond to the teasing, genuinely upset that he was refusing to let her in. She had moved so close to him that she was standing practically between his legs. He had to suppress the instinct to shrink away from her.  
  
"You know what I mean, Professor," Hermione ground out, trying her best not to seem insolent. "I want to know you, I want us to know each other. As people, not just teacher and student!"  
  
Snape couldn't control himself any longer, he simply would not allow this to go on. He rose swiftly from the desk, not caring that he'd nearly caused her to fall back onto the floor, and gripped her arms forcefully. She squealed in pain, but he ignored her, bending forward so they were directly eye to eye. Hermione's toes barely touched the ground, so strongly was he holding her up; she felt insubstantial, as if she could be far too easily blown about like so many leaves in the wind.  
  
"Miss Granger," he enunciated coldly, his voice physically hurting her heart; it felt as if icicles were being cast at it with his every word. Her eyes filled with tears of anguish and confusion, but his remained bleak as they bored into hers, black as night and without a single glint of light in them. It was as if she was staring into an abyss, his abyss. "I hadn't been sure until just this moment of what, precisely, you wished to accomplish when coming to speak with me. But now that I am, it is my duty to impress upon you that what you have in mind, this abomination that you are devoted to, will NEVER come to pass between us. Do you hear me, girl? Never. It is wrong and it is despicable."   
  
Hermione squinted at him through wounded, tear-soaked eyes. Even now, she would not give up what she had been fighting so hard for. There was a resentful bitterness in her tremulous voice when she spoke to him.   
  
"Y-you say it is your duty, but is it what you really want?"  
  
Snape's eyes widened in fury, appalled at her audacity. He shook her violently, her body so light she felt like a rag doll in his hands.  
  
"Don't play games with me, girl!" he spat at her contemptuously. "I won't suffer a fool to try to make one of me in my own dungeons!"  
  
"I'm not playing games!" she shouted with a passion that surprised the both of them. "This is serious, I am serious about you."   
  
Snape sneered down at her, and if looks could kill she'd be nothing but dust at his feet right now. He released her from his grasp as if throwing away an object which he'd lost interest in and turned his back to her.   
  
"Serious about me," he mocked her, voice fairly dripping with derision. "And I had thought that the only thing that could capture the romantic attentions of a repulsive, little know-it-all like you would be a book. Tell me, Miss Granger, if I were a book, would you suppose that you possess the proper amount of cerebral stamina as well as raw intellect to be able to read me all the way through?" He tilted his head just slightly in her direction so she could view the contemptuous curling of his lip before he dealt the final blow. "I think not."  
  
Tears ran freely down Hermione's pale cheeks, her heart plummeted sickeningly into the pit of her stomach. She had tried her hardest, and she had lost. She had failed. She had never failed at anything in her life until now. He had marred her permanent record by withholding himself from her. She choked down a sob and turned eyes that glittered with rage upon Snape's rigid form.   
  
"And if I were a potion, sir," she bit out, anger causing her voice to shake, "would you pay me as much careful attention, give me as much of your time, and..." She inhaled the frigid air around them deeply, and when she let the breath go, so too did her wrath seem to dissipate, leaving her small body a hollow shell in its passing. "And love me as much as I want you to?"  
  
"I cannot love you, Miss Granger, and I do not," Snape assured her icily, yet a trace of remorse was visible in the stooping of his stance. His heart was aching for the child, but he knew he could not show her any sympathy. He would miss her, he thought wistfully. She was such a sweet little girl. But that was all she was, and all she ever could be to him. He repeated this fact over and over again in his mind as Hermione cried pitiably behind him.   
  
After taking a moment to collect herself, Hermione wrenched open the door and tore recklessly through the corridor. She didn't know where she was going, only that she needed to get away from him. If only she'd never been late to his class those many months ago, the events concerning him that followed that incident would never have taken place. If only she hadn't wondered what lay behind those cold, black eyes of his. If only she hadn't seen all the good that existed within them. He would still have been her harsh Professor and the only things she'd crave from him would be better grades.   
  
'If only' was the thought that echoed in both of their minds all through the rest of that unfortunate night. If only they could know it. 


	17. To Be Petrified

A/N: Quotes on the Basilisk and a sentence or two spoken by McGonagall taken directly from 'Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets', by J.K. Rowling et al (as we all know; certain people get so picky out here:P), and some plot sequences copyrighted by the aforementioned are elaborated upon. But I would think that my plot-borrowing should be rather obvious by now^_~.   
  
Beneath the Surface  
  
Chapter the Sixteenthe: To Be Petrified  
  
Days passed without a single word uttered between Hermione Granger and Severus Snape. Weeks flew by with more of the same purposeful silence. Months advanced quickly, turning the slight chill of late Fall into the merciless freeze of dead Winter. Still, not a single word passed from one to the other.   
  
Severus told himself that their parting was for the best, that she had been starting to get on his nerves. Or under his skin.   
  
He could not have that; the thought that she'd been truthful—and he knew that she had—in her confession of love (or lust; a pre-adolescent couldn't possibly be able to feel anything more) for him was beyond disturbing. To be perfectly honest, it was frightening. He, Severus Snape, Potions Master of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was actually afraid of one of his students. And a Second Year, at that!  
  
He feared her determination, he feared her courage, but most of all, he feared the depth of her feelings for him, implied by actions that he had overlooked and words that he had not listened to correctly.  
  
He had wasted away many an hour attempting to figure out just what it was about him that had gotten her attention in the first place. And he'd come up with nothing! True, while certainly not a man whom one would call handsome, Snape knew that he was not without his charms, both aesthetically and intellectually. He possessed a uniquely incisive wit that was known to reduce anyone at whom it was directed to babbling idiots before him. And if he chose to focus his legendary powers of persuasion on a person from whom there was something he wanted, it was needless to say that he got it rather easily.  
  
But he had not directed any such overtures at his student. In fact, he had done nothing to warrant her affection, nothing at all! Then WHY in all creation did she want HIM?   
  
He began to dwell on these confounding questions to which he could find no answer. Despite how thoroughly he ignored the girl in person, her presence dominated his mind in private. Anger budded red as his own lifeblood in his heart and throve like a rare Winter flower as the season itself progressed. Hatred towards she who had planted it by loving him.  
  
Or so she said. The rage flared higher in his abdomen at the thought. And every thought was filled with her, consumed by her.   
  
Their nightly talks together had ceased abruptly after that last one when she'd all but begged for his love and he'd refused it to her. He found that, while he was glad to be without her presence, save for in class, he missed the chances she gave for him to unburden his near desiccated conscience.   
  
His chest always felt tight these days, as if his memories were being forcefully pressed against him. It was the way he always used to feel before... the girl came along. Apparently he'd forgotten it while in her presence. Even at night—or especially at night, it should be said—it pained him. He was trapped within the castle walls, so there was no way to avoid it, save for distraction. And there was only one thing that had distracted him from the misery of his memories before the girl came along.   
  
The light.  
  
It was still there, as it had always been since its explosive creation, shining freely and fearlessly in a near perfect circle upon the center of his dark bed. He was sorry to have forgotten it, to have been able to sleep without knowing it was there.   
  
So he once again gazed at it all through his nights until they became mornings, watching its shade fade and brighten as if reacquainting himself with a dear, old friend. And so it had been. And so it would be again.  
  
Forever.  
  
~*~  
  
Hermione sighed as she closed yet another heavy tome and hefted it back onto its place on the shelf before her. She'd been in the Hogwarts library all afternoon (it was a Saturday, so there were no classes), tearing through one book after the other in her mad search for answers. Time was running out, and if she didn't find what she needed by nightfall, another student could be petrified.   
  
She was almost grateful that the school had been overtaken by fear of the Basilisk, who had thus far made its presence in the castle known three times, as she now had a very good thing to distract her from thoughts of her Potions Professor. She hadn't thought of him once after that night, which she'd spent crying into her pillow, hoping to whatever God was watching over her that her dorm mates didn't hear. Whether anyone had heard her or not, no one said anything the next day. She wouldn't have expected them to.  
  
She was scanning her current selection swiftly, a finger running under the words of each page to keep her place. She frowned, finding nothing.  
  
If Snape's presence arose even in the back of her mind, Hermione mentally shocked herself as penance for thinking about him. She'd sworn after that night never to even look at him again, and so far she'd been successful in that endeavor. No one had ever hurt her this badly, and she knew not what to do, what to feel. So she closed herself off to the pain and felt nothing.   
  
She researched tirelessly during every spare moment she had for any information about the location of the feared Chamber of Secrets, where the beast had lived since its birth. Though they were not with her today, Harry and Ron often worked alongside her in the library, and had proven themselves to be very diligent and resourceful in their studies, much to her surprise. Perhaps it was due to their fear of the Heir of Slytherin and the awesome horrors that could be wreaked upon the castle, and the world, if the Chamber was not found in time and destroyed.   
  
Their other Gryffindor friends thought their efforts were all in vain; if Dumbledore himself didn't know the answers to these questions, how were a trio of Second Year students going to find them out? But the three ignored them, and continued searching day after day, and, in Hermione's case, night after night. She didn't care whether she found what they were looking for or not (a fact which was distantly startling to the old, knowledge-hungry Hermione); it was the search she needed, the distraction.   
  
Even Harry and Ron had become discouraged lately; they'd tried everything they could think of, up to and including the brewing and carrying out of the forbidden Polyjuice Potion. It had been a bit too easy to convince Hermione to venture secretly into Snape's storeroom to steal the Boomslang Skin that they needed, but the boys were too grateful to question her about any ulterior motives she might possess. (And, to this day, if they mentioned anything about cats to Hermione, anything whatsoever, they received a glare so cold that it could freeze water into ice.)   
  
After that terrible night in the dungeons with Snape, Hermione's demeanor had changed dramatically, so much so that even her friends noticed it. She was no longer the outgoing, personable girl they had once known. She had become sullen and even-tempered, a shadow of her former self. Her friends (that is, Harry, Ron and Ginny) questioned her almost every day at meals and in the Common Room about the strange changes in her behavior, but she dismissed their concerns every time, saying she was merely tired.   
  
One day, when it seemed that the old excuse was not going to cut it anymore, she thoughtlessly joked that she was 'pining for someone'. Unfortunately, her friends took it seriously and their queries now focused on who the object of her misguided affections was. When Harry happened to catch her staring at Professor Lockhart, well, that was it. As far as they were concerned, she was in love with him, and she did next to nothing to dispel that notion. After all, it was far better than if they were to guess anything that had gone on between herself and Professor Snape.   
  
This book didn't have anything either. She pushed it aside and yanked the next volume down.   
  
She had begun to feel like a robot lately, as if she were constantly operating on automatic pilot. Her days were all exactly the same, each one interchangeable with any other. All she ever did now was go to class, study, go to meals and pretend to be like her old self when talking with her friends. She didn't sleep.   
  
Suddenly she heard a rustling noise behind her, and whipped her head around to check. No one was there. She rolled her eyes at her paranoia; this was a library, of course there would be others here. No matter that a game between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff was scheduled to commence in less than a half an hour and most of the other kids were probably rushing out to the Quidditch Fields to get good seats for it.  
  
There it was again! Someone was playing a trick on her, and she wasn't going to fall for it. She remembered the mirror in her pocket, and covertly took it out and held it before her so she would be able to see who was behind her when they came near again. All was silent for the next few minutes, so she returned to her perusal of the book lying open on the wooden eave of the set of shelves in front of her. Her eyes widened at a passage she came across, finger halting abruptly beneath it. It was the most useful information that any of them had yet found. It read:  
  
'Of the many fearsome beasts and monsters that roam our land, there is none more curious or more deadly than the Basilisk, also known as the King of Serpents. This snake, which may reach gigantic size and live many hundreds of years, is born from a chicken's egg, hatched beneath a toad. Its methods of killing are more wondrous, for aside from its deadly and venomous fangs, the Basilisk has a murderous stare, and all who are fixed with the beam of its eye shall suffer instant death. Spiders flee before the Basilisk, for it is their mortal enemy, and the Basilisk flees only from the crowing of the rooster, which is fatal to it.'  
  
She rummaged through her bag for a piece of parchment, and in her haste, ripped off only a shred from her roll. She cared not, and grabbed her quill to quickly copy the passage down onto the small page. She read it over several times, memorizing it, digesting it.   
  
'So *that's* what's been doing those horrible things! The thought of that creature in this very school right at this very moment is creepy. ...But how can such a large thing manage to get around without being seen?'  
  
And then her eyes gleamed with understanding, as if lit from within, and she smiled triumphantly, the first time she'd done so in what seemed like ages. She scribbled the word 'pipes' underneath the paragraph she'd copied, and underlined it boldly. She'd figured out a very large part of the mystery! This was amazing! She folded the shred of parchment neatly and clutched it in her right hand; she'd have to find Harry and Ron immediately and tell them the wonderful news.   
  
But before she could move to shove her things into her bag and rush from the library, she heard that strange sound again, as if someone were shuffling their feet on the ground behind her. They seemed to be getting closer, for the sound became louder and louder, until it was close to deafening in its volume. Now she was becoming afraid.   
  
She grasped her small mirror tightly and turned it so she could see the space just behind her within it, and that was when she saw it.   
  
It's head filled the mirror completely, but she could only see the upper part of it's face, so large was the repulsive creature. It's scales were long, shiny and sharp-looking, and they were colored a mottled black-and-green. But the most amazing and hideous of all were its eyes; enormous, blood-red and focused directly on her through the mirror. Upon meeting them, she could not look away, though she so wanted to. All she could see were flames and blood, all she could feel, fear and death.  
  
And then her vision went black, and there was nothing.   
  
~*~  
  
Snape was walking with his colleague, Professor Minerva McGonagall, to the Headmaster's office late that afternoon. They'd both been summoned by him via their respective fireplaces, but the old man had not given either of them any reason as to why he needed to see them so urgently. McGonagall was anticipating the worst, as was evident in her brisk step and anxious frown; Snape, on the other hand, was used to such occurrences, and rolled his eyes at her concern, matching her pace easily with the larger strides his longer legs provided him.   
  
"Severus, really, how can you be so relaxed? We are in the midst of treacherous times!" McGonagall huffed.  
  
"Don't be so melodramatic, Minerva." Snape sneered. "It's unbecoming of a lady." His feigned prejudice against the female sex always got to the other teacher, who prided herself on her independence in a man's world, and he smiled to himself as he felt her bristle beside him.   
  
"Severus Snape, if I were not in such a hurry, I'd see to it that you'd regret those words!"  
  
"Oh, really? And just what would you do to me?" he asked her smoothly, but the derision was clear in his voice. Her thin lips drew together tightly, a red, angry line.   
  
"For starters, I'd transfigure that vile tongue of yours into a lead weight!" she ground out.   
  
Sensing that her tolerance of him had reached its limit, as well as noticing her bony hand drawing towards her wand, Snape cleared his throat and let her statement lie. After taking a few moments to calm herself, Minerva was able to perceive his contrition (slight that it was) and favored him with the faintest of smiles, the lines around her cat-like green eyes softening.   
  
"Honestly, Snape," she teased him in a stern tone, reminding him of the time when she had been his Professor. "You're such a schadenfreude."  
  
"Pardon me?" he asked her quizzically. She faced him fully, her eyes widening. He returned her stare warily.  
  
"Are you telling me that the great Potions Master and all-around genius Severus Snape doesn't know the meaning of a simple word?" she asked in an amazed tone. He scowled down at her.  
  
"Simple? It's German!" A vicious glint lit up his black eyes. "Though the German people themselves may be exceedingly simplistic in nature, their language is not."   
  
McGonagall gaped at his impertinence and slapped his arm lightly. He knew she was half German, and proud of it, as she was of everything else about herself. He chuckled softly, and she knew that he hadn't meant to insult her seriously. She rolled her eyes and continued walking, knowing he'd follow.  
  
"A 'schadenfreude' is a person who derives joy from the troubles of others. The word was made for people like you." The sneer she gave him could rival his own on a good day, and he laughed appreciatively.   
  
"My dear Minerva, you are far too kind."   
  
They had finally reached the two stone gargoyles which guarded the stairwell to Dumbledore's office. Severus looked expectantly at Minerva, for he did not know the password.   
  
"Licorice all-sorts," she pronounced, ignoring Snape's snide scoff, and a grinding of stone heralded the shifting of the spiral staircase. They stepped onto the newly revealed entrance without preamble and waited in silence, McGonagall with her hands folded at her stomach, Snape with his arms crossed stiffly over his chest, as the stairs rose them to their destination.   
  
Dumbledore came into view seated at his desk, his eyes serious though he was, as usual, smiling benignly at his guests. The two were surprised to see that the other members of the teaching staff were already assembled in the room, seated uncomfortably in a circle around their Headmaster. Snape frowned; perhaps the news they were about to receive was more serious than he had thought.   
  
"Welcome, Minerva, Severus," he greeted them. "Please sit down." Snape and McGonagall took their seats in the only two of the comfortable wooden chairs that had remained empty in the circle.  
  
Severus noted that Albus' voice did not sound as warm as it did when all was well; that meant that he did indeed have bad news to tell them, but it was not exceedingly dire. On a scale from one to ten, one being trivial, ten being terrible, Snape deduced that what Dumbledore would say to them would be about a three or four. Severus Snape had always been a very perceptive man.  
  
"I'm afraid that I have some rather bad news for you all," Albus said, his tone more sorrowful than grave. "It seems that earlier this afternoon, Penelope Clearwater, a Ravenclaw prefect, and Hermione Granger, a Second Year Gryffindor, were the latest two victims of the Basilisk."   
  
Gasps and groans emitted from the professors around him, which escalated at Hermione's name, as she was a favorite student of just about anyone who had the pleasure of teaching her. Snape's entire body grew cold and his heart dropped into his stomach like a rock. He said nothing.  
  
"But the good news, my friends," Dumbledore continued, "is that these students, like the others before them, did not look directly into the Basilisk's eyes. They have only been petrified, not killed, so I have great hope for their recoveries. We have but to wait for the maturation of Professor Sprout's Mandrake roots, which will cure them of their malady."  
  
Many of the teachers sighed in relief, some dabbing at tears in their eyes with linen handkerchiefs. Only Severus Snape remained perfectly still, complexion drained, eyes glazed over as they gazed unseeingly into his lap. He could no longer hear what Dumbledore was saying.  
  
"Of course, as always, I don't want any of the students knowing of that creature's existence, so I'm sure that I can continue to trust you all to keep it a secret..."   
  
'She's alright,' a small voice in Snape's mind breathed in relief. 'Thank Merlin, she's going to be alright! Oh, the poor little child...'   
  
"Severus, lad?"   
  
The gentle voice filtered into Snape's mind and he looked up at Dumbledore slowly. The old man was smiling, but his sharp blue eyes were concerned. The other professors were quietly filing out of the room.  
  
"Yes, sir?" Snape asked, obviously disoriented.   
  
"The meeting has been concluded. Was there something else you wished to speak with me about?"   
  
"...Oh. No, Headmaster, thank you." Snape rose from his seat and straightened his clothing, too preoccupied with the plight of his student to conceal his consternation. "See you at dinner, then."  
  
Snape inclined his head politely at Dumbledore, who returned the gesture with a smile, and exited the office with just a bit less panache than usual. He was too shaken by Albus' news to care much about appearances. Dumbledore kept his eyes glued to the spot where his Potions Master had been long after he left, pondering the man's curious behavior. He finally shook his head and returned to the papers on his desk, lifting a phoenix-feather quill with a delicately wrinkled old hand.   
  
'That boy is in need of a female...or male, I can't seem to remember which direction his wand is pointed in.'  
  
Albus Dumbledore, world-renowned wizard and Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was not quite as omniscient as he was given credit for being. And cheerfully so.  
  
~*~  
  
'I've got to go see her, I have to see for my own eyes if she's alright!' Snape's inner monologue was assaulting him at a frantic pace, matching his stride as he made his way quickly to Hogwarts' Infirmary. His left nostril was beginning to twitch, as it tended to do when he was fighting to hide his fear for another. Needless to say, that did not occur all too often in his life. He was feeling rather unhinged.  
  
A small cluster of Third Year Ravenclaws practically leapt out of his way as he passed them, and stared after their Professor in amazement when he spared them not a glance. Snape hadn't bothered to take any points from them for being too close to him in the hallway.  
  
As he was hurrying through the Charms wing, his path was obstructed by the insistent body of a young Second Year Slytherin. He stopped and looked down at her, knowing that those of his House expected him to at least hear them out before dismissing them. What was her name again... Parrington? No...  
  
"Yes, Miss..." He racked his brains for the name, but still could not remember it. He hated it when he didn't know the name of one of his Slytherins.   
  
"Parkinson, sir," the girl said in a shrill, supercilious tone. She appeared to be hurt that he'd forgotten her name.  
  
"Miss Parkinson, of course. Forgive me," he apologized, his words genuine despite his desire to be done with her and on his way. The girl smiled and nodded, the pride gleaming in her small blue eyes making it evident that she had been flattered by his simple words.  
  
"Sir, I was going to ask you if you had any time to help me with today's assign—"  
  
"I'm afraid I don't have the time, Miss Parkinson. Perhaps we could schedule a meeting after class tomorrow, as the assignment is not due until next Monday. Good day." With that, he offered her a small smile and a curt nod before brushing past her down the corridor.  
  
He did not feel her eyes fixed upon his back as he walked away; cold, yet piercing and filled with desire. Though her face was calmly composed, a shade of disappointment would have been visible to Snape, had he turned to look back at her.  
  
A sigh of relief escaped his lips when he finally arrived at the Infirmary, but the sight that greeted him from inside the room caused him to immediately shrink back against the doorframe. The shadows about the entranceway concealed his body, but his onyx eyes glittered like jewels in the darkness as they took in the scene before him.  
  
The numerous crisp, white-sheeted beds that lined the main chamber of the Infirmary had four occupants that he could see, each spaced a good deal apart from the others. Hermione Granger had been placed on the last bed to the far left of the room, right next to a rectangular window with the shades drawn.   
  
He could not make out many details in the dim light, but he could see that his student's body had been frozen while she had been in an upright position, arms half-raised at different degrees to her face as if to ward off evil (which, he knew, was what she had been trying to do).   
  
The fingers of each hand were tautly clenched, the second most obvious indication of the terror she had felt at the time she'd been frozen. The first, of course, being the expression on her face. Her eyes were glassy and opened very wide, brows furrowed high on her forehead as if she were in shock. Anyone looking directly into her eyes would think that the blatant fear contained therein was being directed at them, so focused were her brown eyes in her petrified sleep.  
  
Madam Pomfrey, the school's resident Mediwitch, was tending to the other recently afflicted girl, the Ravenclaw Prefect, in a nearby bed. The elderly woman's gentle face was care-worn, lined from decades of work and experience in her craft.   
  
Professor McGonagall stood tensely a foot or so from Hermione's bed, hands clasped tightly at her middle. Her eyes were sad as they gazed into the sightless ones of her favorite pupil, but her expression was schooled into that of the consummate disciplinarian for the benefit of her seeing audience. As she breathed, a small object in her hands reflected the light that peeked from the window across from her back and forth. Snape concentrated on it, squinting his eyes, and noted that it was a round, frame-less mirror.  
  
On either side of Hermione stood her two troublesome friends, Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. Their faces were turned away from Snape's view, but he could pick up their sorrow from their body language. Their heads were bowed, shoulders slumped, spines relaxed. So they did care for their living encyclopedia of knowledge after all, Snape thought bitterly.  
  
After several moments of this awkward, grieving silence between the occupants of the Infirmary, McGonagall cleared her throat loudly before beginning to speak, her rather heavy Scottish brogue cutting into the stillness like a sharp knife through soft bread.   
  
"They were found near the library. I don't suppose either of you can explain this?" She held up the small disc. "It was on the floor next to them."  
  
The two boys did not look up from their friend, but shook their heads negatively in answer to McGonagall's question. The older woman sighed, then bustled forth to usher her two young Gryffindors back to their Common Room. They assented, albeit reluctantly, and whispered farewells to their comatose friend as if she could hear them.   
  
As the Head of Gryffindor House and her two charges approached the door of the Infirmary, Snape slunk away from it and glided swiftly down the corridor that led to the opposite direction of the Astronomy Tower. He did not run, for he thought such an action to be cowardly and beneath him, but there was still no trace of his presence when the four appeared in the hall.   
  
'I had not thought this through. What excuse would I have given to Pomfrey for visiting the girl? No... when it is too late for the students to be in the halls and for the staff to be awake, I will go to her.'   
  
~*~  
  
It was well past midnight when he had finally gotten a chance to visit Hermione. Like a hunted fugitive, he prowled through the halls of Hogwarts, keeping close to the walls and the shadows they provided. Lady Luck must have found favor with Severus Snape that night, for the only people he passed on his way to the Infirmary were Argus Filch and several of Hogwarts' resident specters (whom he still counted as people; being deceased didn't change that fact).  
  
Hooded in darkness, he reached his destination unhindered. The door was locked, but a simple Alohomora took care of that. (Pomfrey wouldn't have dared to lock her patients in by magic, lest there be an immediate need to get in or out of the room). He pushed the door open carefully with one hand, watching the room come into view as the door swung back on its hinges.   
  
First there was the Mediwitch's small office, but as the room had no windows it was pitch dark, save for the glinting of certain tools that had been left on the desk and of the cabinet windows across from it. The door to the much larger room beyond, where the patients were kept, had been left ajar.   
  
The shades of the large windows on either side of this room were raised (as was always done at night), and the entire room was bathed in the silvery glow of the near full moon that was shining outside. The patients were resting awkwardly atop their beds, and if one who was not familiar with the nature of the malady which afflicted them were to have seen them now, eyes wide open and bodies frozen in motion, they would have thought them frightening, grotesque. But Snape only felt regretful as he looked at them.   
  
With one last look over his shoulder and an intake of breath, Snape snuck into the office, closing the door behind him. With much trepidation, he made his way into the hospital room and toward the last bed on the left. He gulped down the guilt and nervousness he was feeling and approached the foot of Hermione Granger's bed.  
  
With his hands delicately clasped at his waist, his ebony-haired head bowed low, and his straight, penitent posture, he appeared a mourner, the unforgiving black of his clothing and robes contrasting starkly with the pale white of his hands and face.  
  
He hadn't looked into the face of this student once since their last private meeting together. He was momentarily taken aback by how, due to her being petrified at a terrifying and vulnerable moment, her large eyes appeared to be accusing him and imploring his forgiveness at the same time. It was as if they had never left each other's side, and his last words to her returned to echo painfully in his memory.   
  
'This abomination will never come to pass… It is wrong and it is unforgivable… I cannot love you and I do not…'  
  
He squeezed his eyes shut in remorse. Though he still held on to the belief that what she had been asking of him was not only inappropriate, but impossible for him to commit to, he did intensely regret the words in which he'd expressed his rejection. He, who was more than familiar with rejection, if in different ways, should have known better than to have said such things to the child; this innocent, lovely little girl who now lay motionless before him, who could neither walk, nor speak, nor most likely even think.   
  
"I don't know if you can hear me, Miss Granger… Hermione," he whispered softly to her. "But I have to tell you that I never meant to hurt you, never. I wish I had the courage to say this before, and when you could understand me… I hope somehow that you do now, all the same."  
  
He reached out and gently closed his fingers around hers. Her tiny hand was dwarfed in his much larger one, her skin cold and unyielding. He gazed into her unseeing eyes steadily, pretending that she could hear him.  
  
"I'm sorry, Hermione, so very sorry…"  
  
~*~  
  
As the weeks went by with no solution to the riddle of the Chamber of Secrets, Severus Snape continued to visit Hermione Granger in secret once every few days, shrouded in shadow and concealed by nightfall.   
  
As the girl could not communicate with him in any way, he would bring a book along with him and read the entire thing from cover to cover by her side, seated comfortably in one of the well-worn wooden chairs that had been placed next to each bed. The gnawing guilt he felt at the vile words he had spat at her when last they spoke as well as for her current condition (though he knew he'd had no hand in what the Basilisk had done) brought him to the Infirmary night after night, but his fondness for the child kept him there for hours on end. He found that just being beside her created a comfortable calm in him that he did not experience with anyone else.   
  
Not one person knew of his clandestine meetings (for they could not be called 'their' meetings, as one of the two was not aware of the other's presence) in the Infirmary, but still he took every precaution when undertaking them.   
  
One temperate night during mid-spring, Severus looked up from his reading with a weary sigh, realizing with irritation that he was far too tired to finish 'The Lord of the Rings' by J.R.R. Tolkien for the umpteenth time in his life (he preferred the fictional literature of muggles rather than wizards, as the works of the latter tended to be dry and unimaginative. But then, when one lived in a world where nearly anything was possible, what was there left to imagine?). He placed the book on the sterile white night table next to Hermione's bed and leaned back in his chair, concentrating on relaxing each limb and every muscle in his long, slender body.  
  
After gazing out of the window at the magnificent view of Hogwarts' surrounding lands at night, the grasses whispering in the soft wind and the pond shimmering in the luminous moonlight, his eyes fell upon the still form of Hermione. She had been in the same clothes for at least a month now, yet they always looked fresh and unwrinkled. Her hair also seemed to be perpetually clean, despite its stubborn tangles. Idly, he wondered if Pomfrey had been casting regular cleansing charms on the petrified victims. Most likely.   
  
Perhaps it was due to the level of his exhaustion, but the girl's hair appeared to have grown very long during her stay at the Infirmary. It lay wreathed upon her pillow, its many tendrils curling around her face like golden-brown snakes. The shine of it was almost overwhelming to his eyes, and it looked so soft that he was feeling the most pressing desire to reach out his hand and touch it. The desire was born more out of sheer curiosity than anything else, and he scoffed at himself as he would have at a child who just had to touch everything it saw at a museum.   
  
Eventually, however, the curiosity won out over his sense of propriety, and he allowed one of his hands to slither towards the gleaming mass of Hermione's hair. He was so cautious in this maneuver that one would have thought the girl's tresses really were composed of snakes that would bite him if he was not careful in his approach. When at last his hand reached its destination, he was startled by the actual texture of her hair as opposed to what he had thought it would feel like.  
  
It was extremely coarse, rather like wool, and he gripped a thick strand of it softly in his fingers, savoring the feel of it. He had run his hands down many a silky-maned head, including his own, and so his sense of touch was being harshly assaulted by the raw feeling of the child's waving hair. He found he preferred this texture to that of silk; it was honest and Earthy.   
  
After several moments, he disentangled his fingers from her hair and began to gently stroke it back from her forehead. A smile formed on his lips before he could stop it from spreading. Unlike most people, Severus Snape tended to genuinely smile only when he was melancholy. He had to swallow a painful lump that had manifested in his throat, for it threatened tears, and he could not abide crying. He had stopped doing it long ago, when he was still a youth.   
  
For, looking upon the open, naive countenance of this dear child, he was forced to remember who he had once been, and what he had long since lost.   
  
His innocence.   
  
~*~  
  
They had done it. Those two bloody *children* had done it. They'd found out the location of the Chamber of Secrets, actually ventured inside of it, and defeated the mighty Basilisk, as well as its master, Tom Marvolo Riddle, the preserved teenaged version of Lord Voldemort. Snape couldn't believe it.   
  
'At least Lockhart is gone.'  
  
But Severus Snape had far more pressing matters to attend to than the briefing of those two meddlesome prats (it mattered not to him that they'd saved the entire muggle population of the school from certain death at the hands of a madman and his medieval monster) in the Headmaster's office; the Mandrake root had finally matured to the point where it was ready to be administered to the petrified victims. He had to be there when she woke up.  
  
~*~  
  
"You're alright now, calm down, Miss Clearwater," Madam Pomfrey was saying to the newly revived Ravenclaw prefect, who had begun to hyperventilate upon her awakening. The poor girl must have been very confused, Snape noted. He hoped Hermione would fair better when her turn came.   
  
Snape had slunk into the Infirmary so quietly that it took the Mediwitch nearly five minutes to notice his presence.   
  
"Severus?" she asked, her tone suggesting that she couldn't believe her eyes. He met her gaze with a dry sneer. "What on earth are you doing here?"  
  
"Does it really matter, Poppy?" He moved to the other side of Miss Clearwater's bed and crossed his arms. "Perhaps I came to assist you."  
  
He hadn't bothered to speak convincingly, but even so, Pomfrey had known that her colleague was not one to speak his true intentions to anyone. Plus, she could really use the help at this moment, for young Colin Creevey, who had seemed to be doing well when she'd awoken him, was now throwing a small hissy fit in his bed across the room, and she still needed to awake Miss Granger yet.   
  
"Then make yourself useful and give this to Miss Granger," she said brusquely, thrusting a goblet of the concentrated Mandrake root at him. He just managed to grab it in both hands before it fell to the floor, but when he looked up to scowl at Pomfrey, she was already quite busy with Mr. Creevey. Snape walked over to his just acquired charge, clutching her remedy in his hands apprehensively.  
  
'Do I really want her to be able to speak again?' Was the thought that flew through his mind. She was so much more pleasant to be around when silent.  
  
During their time apart, he'd discovered that he had grown too accustomed to her friendship to endure happily without it, but he'd been selfishly enjoying the comfort a wordless Hermione brought him.   
  
The words she had spoken about her feelings for him were just too frightening for him to have to hear again. Was he really more afraid of her affection, though, or what he himself would do if it continued?  
  
Colin Creevey took this time to run shrieking from the room, and the Ravenclaw prefect followed him shortly after. Completely overwhelmed by this turn of events, Madam Pomfrey threw up her hands and turned to Snape in irritation.  
  
"Get on with it, then, boy! Can't you see I have enough to do right now? I thought you were here to help out, not hang about!" she shouted as she took after the escaped patients at a pace that was surprising for a witch of her age to be capable of.   
  
That woman would always see him as a teenaged student, no matter how old he got. He shot her departed back a withering sneer before he placed the goblet on the night stand and took his familiar seat next to Hermione. His hands were shaking as he placed one at the base of her skull to raise her head, and gripped her chin with the other to open her mouth. Once her teeth were a sufficient distance apart, he took the goblet in his hand and returned it to her mouth, pausing before tipping it.  
  
'Now or never, Severus,' he reprimanded himself. He closed his eyes as he finally allowed the liquid to slide down the girl's throat. It was like pouring water down a tube; there were no protestations on her part, neither did she stir.   
  
He opened his eyes and looked at her, beginning to worry. She was just as she had been for the past month and a half; no change had been wrought by the medicine. What if she had been differently affected by the Basilisk's stare than the other victims? Snape's heart skipped a beat.   
  
"Hermione?" he whispered, his voice infused with tremulous hope. Still, there was nothing. Only those wide, haunting eyes piercing his.   
  
And then she blinked, in so terribly slow a motion that he wasn't sure he'd seen it at all. He held his breath, keeping his eyes glued to her face. She blinked again, several times in succession and with increasing speed. Her eyes moved about his face torpidly, focusing on each of his features until they finally halted at his own eyes. She gulped in air, and he could see the skin over her throat contracting in his peripheral vision.   
  
"P-Professor Snape?" Her voice was very dry from lack of use, and only a bit louder than a whisper.   
  
He nodded and smiled widely, the foreign expression completely relaxing his tense features. The crease between his brows disappeared, but thin lines feathered from the corners of his eyes. He figured that she had never seen him smile thus, for the look on her face suggested she didn't recognize him.   
  
"Is that you?" she asked in a quavering voice. He chuckled softly, but tried to school his expression back into its accustomed impassivity.   
  
"Yes, Herm—Miss Granger, it's me."   
  
"Where am I? What's going on?" she asked, darting her eyes about in confusion.  
  
But before Snape could respond to her queries, Hermione bolted up in her bed, then swayed with the unfamiliarity of her movements. He put a hand on one of her small shoulders to steady her.   
  
"I have to warn Harry and Ron about the Basilisk! The Chamber—"   
  
Snape held up a firm hand and used the other to push her gently back against her pillow.   
  
"You have been under the Basilisk's spell for a long time, Miss Granger. The Basilisk as well as the Chamber of Secrets are no more," he explained to her in a calm voice. "Your two best friends have saved us all from certain destruction once again, and we may all return to our normal lives."  
  
An exceedingly baffled pair of large brown eyes met his black, placid ones, and he sighed tiredly.   
  
"All will be explained to you later," he assured her, then fixed her with a grave expression. "But for now, you must rest."  
  
She nodded absently, her mind still struggling to grasp the facts he had so briefly lain before her. For a long time, the two sat side by side in silence, Snape gazing out of the window, Hermione gazing at him. He finally felt her eyes upon him and turned to face her again, his eyebrows rising as he patiently awaited her inevitable questions.   
  
'She's already showing some sparks of her old self; she'll be back to normal in no time at all. Joy.'  
  
"Professor, were you here the entire time?" she asked simply, honestly. He was taken aback by this; he'd thought that the Basilisk's frozen victims were completely oblivious to anything and everything that happened to or around them for the entire duration of their petrification. (If he weren't so reluctant to reveal his friendship with Miss Granger to the general public, he would have taken it upon himself to parade this information to the rather self-confident Madam Pomfrey.)  
  
"Perhaps I was," he half-admitted to her smoothly, opting to hide how worried he had been for her by feigning nonchalance. The ghost of an uncertain smile floated over her lips.   
  
"So, does that mean that you aren't angry with me anymore?" There was no pretense in her eyes, though her demeanor was uncertain.  
  
"No, child, I am no longer angry with you."  
  
Hermione beamed at him; Snape offered her back a shade of a smile.  
  
Well, then. That was all that needed to be said to repair the great, bleeding gashes in their relationship. How tenuous is humanity, indeed. Snape cared not; he had missed her far too much to quibble over trivial differences (as trivial as one's romantic feelings for another were, in his mind).  
  
Suddenly, Hermione's features became pensive as she looked at him. He mimicked her expression teasingly, which caused her to giggle. How he had missed that disharmonious sound!  
  
"Forgive me Professor, as I may have only dreamt it, but... did you actually call me by my first name?"   
  
Snape fairly shrank under her penetrating gaze. He wouldn't have said it if he'd thought she could hear him! ...Or would he have? He cleared his throat and folded his arms defensively.   
  
"Of course not, Miss Granger, you must have suffered a bit of delirium as a side effect of your petrification." He rose stiffly, making ready to let her to the solitude of the empty room. "You must be very tired, so I'll leave you to your rest. I'm, er, glad that you've been revived," Snape finished clumsily, being well aware of all the other things he could have and so wanted to say to her.  
  
He pivoted on his heel and strode to exit the Infirmary, trying with all his might to ignore the crushed look that he knew adorned the girl's features. He paused at the door, battling with his split conscience for a tense several seconds. Finally, decision made, he turned his sharp profile back to the bed-ridden child.  
  
"You know I would never dare to call you Hermione," he said softly, his tone almost playful.   
  
Then he did leave the room, but the sound of her delighted gasp rung pleasantly in his ears all the way back to the dungeons. His imprisoned heart had finally been breached.  
  
Severus Snape smiled. 


	18. A Yellow Flower, A Red Sunset

Beneath the Surface  
  
Chapter the Seventeenthe: A Yellow Flower and a Red Sunset  
  
"I've told you 'no' for nearly half a year, you silly girl, what makes you think I'll change my mind now?" Severus Snape yelled out before slamming and locking---both magically and manually---the door to his chambers. He leaned heavily against it (as if the action would aid in keeping the girl on the other side of the door at bay) and sighed in exhaustion. This routine was really too much for his nerves.   
  
Of course the tenacious girl had found out the location to his private rooms by now. She would have made an excellent spy were she not so guileless and clumsy with her emotions. A true Gryffindor through and through, Hermione Granger was.   
  
As it was, though, he was beginning to feel stalked by her. She was coming to see him almost every other night now. The girl was now nearly halfway through her Third Year! She was far too old to still be playing at this silly conquest of him. He was a man, not a boy, and reacted far differently to her juvenile flirtations than would one of her own age.   
  
"Professor, please let me in!" Hermione cajoled from the other side of the door. "I promise I won't even mention it again."  
  
'At least not tonight,' he mentally scoffed. 'I know you too well.'  
  
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was developing a throbbing headache.  
  
It was as if everything that had taken place between them within the past year had not occurred at all. As if she had never clumsily confessed her feelings for him and he'd never rejected them flat out. They had never spoken of what had transpired after it had happened, but the silent consensus between them was that it could never happen again. Or, that Hermione must never again allow her heart to show on her sleeve, as the saying went.   
  
He should have known that his efforts to distance himself from the girl this year would be futile once puberty set in. Was he the only one who had remained relatively sane at that age? Most likely so.  
  
"Fine, be that way!" Hermione spat indignantly from the other side of the door. He could visualize her features twisted into a childish pout.   
  
He held his breath and pressed an ear to the oaken door, body tense as he waited. Finally he exhaled the air in his lungs and his body sagged against the harsh wood in relief when the sharp tapping of her footsteps receded from the range of his hearing. She was gone.  
  
'This is ridiculous. Me, Severus Snape, reduced to a quivering mass of nerves over fear of a teenaged girl! I shame myself.'  
  
Ashamed is what he told himself he was, but amused was what he knew himself to be. Though he'd been the hapless victim of many a student's crush (that strange term the children used for what had been called 'puppy love' in his day), never had he---dare it be said---cared this much for the perpetrator of such a crime.   
  
Yes, he did have feelings for Hermione Granger, but they were not of a romantic nature. He admired her courage, respected her intelligence, and found her unique eccentricities endearing. She was a child he was proud to call his student (if only to himself), and a person he was glad to have befriended.   
  
Of course, he would be lying to himself if he were to deny the existence of an occasional, if fleeting, flare of arousal which enflamed his body whenever the girl drew too near to him or whispered words in too brazen a cadence. He was a human being, a hot-blooded man like so many others in this world; and what man could completely ignore the overtures of so willing a person?   
  
It especially did not help him that the child had metamorphosed over the summer from a frail, skinny little girl of thirteen into a comely, budding young lady. She was still pale and underweight, but the curves of her body had rounded tentatively into the likeness of a woman's form, and she had gained several inches in height (the top of her head was now level with Snape's shoulder). Her face had matured as well; the planes of her cheeks had hardened and become more defined, her lips more shapely and full. And, worst of all, an awareness of all this now sparkled in her eyes that had not existed last year. She was gaining more confidence in her own wiles, and this was not good at all for Snape.   
  
"The age of fourteen always does such things to a person," he reminisced aloud with an air of melancholy.   
  
But Severus was---or had become---a man of honor, and valiantly stood firm against the oftentimes overwhelming determination of his student to coax him into a romantic relationship with her. But whenever the temptation to give in to her, if only the slightest bit, came over him, he had but to turn and look at her and the desire would vanish from his mind.   
  
For, however intelligent and beguiling a creature she could be, Hermione Granger was but a child, slight of form and inexperienced in the ways of adult interaction. When he saw her as she was, the most Severus could make of her stubborn pursuance of him was that it was 'cute', and he made next to no efforts to hide this opinion from her.   
  
Much to her chagrin. He chuckled softly to himself.  
  
As Severus Snape pushed away from the door and strolled to his bedchamber, he reveled smugly in the fact that he, over all of the multitude of students and dozens of staff that populated Hogwarts, was the one person who had captured the heart of Hermione Granger of Gryffindor.   
  
He had to admit to himself that this little crush of hers was amusing, very amusing, indeed.  
  
"Amusing?" Hermione echoed in disbelief. "You find me amusing?!"  
  
This evening, like many others as of late, found the two alone in Snape's classroom. He was trying to grade parchments while she distracted him with idle chatter. Once again, she had manipulated the subject into that of the dreaded 'state of our relationship and the direction in which it should be going', and, as always, Snape had scoffed at her hopes and provoked an argument out of her. Fighting with her was always better than being at her mercy, in his mind. He really couldn't fathom why he kept agreeing to see the girl. It was certainly a thought which deserved deeper digestion.   
  
Snape put a hand to his lips to muffle a laugh at her expense, but the gesture did nothing to lessen the blow caused by his words. Hermione's cheeks rouged and her lips trembled with anger. She turned away from him petulantly, emitting an indignant 'humph' as she did so. Snape rolled his eyes but decided to indulge her.   
  
"Now, Miss Granger, don't be that way." He set aside his quill and turned in his chair, focusing his full attention on her. "Turn around and face me."  
  
"Why should I?" she asked over her shoulder. "You won't even call me by my first name. That's not very friendly of you."  
  
"Oh, stop being stubborn. It is not proper for a teacher to address his student by their given name, nor for a student to call that teacher by his…or hers," he put in after receiving a scathing glare from Hermione. "And you know it."   
  
"Yes, but what about a friend?" She had turned completely around now, her eyes bright and imploring. They moved him not.   
  
"Miss Granger, however much I'd like to waste my time arguing over the same old things with you for the umpteenth time, I have a great deal of work to get done for tomorrow," Snape said pointedly, glaring down his long nose at her. "Perhaps you'd like to take your leave of your tired, old Professor early tonight."  
  
"You're not that old!" Hermione exclaimed, venturing closer to him. It was obvious that departing the room was the last thing on her mind at the moment. Snape rose from his desk and made to usher her out, arms slightly outstretched.   
  
"I'm sure you haven't finished that essay I assigned to your class yet, so---wait a minute," he crossed his arms and glared down at her with narrowed eyes, her earlier words having just registered in his mind. "'That old'? Are you implying that I AM old at all?!"   
  
"You said it yourself, Professor," Hermione started.   
  
"I was making a joke! Forgive me if I'm not up to date on the latest pointless chitchat," he said, tone dry as a bone, and sneered at Hermione, who, to his irritation, had begun to giggle. "What in Hades is so funny now?"  
  
"You, Professor," she replied laughingly. "Just you."  
  
He rolled his eyes and pursed his lips, willing himself not to snap at the girl for her insolence. He'd already paid the price for such carelessness before, and did not wish to invite such punishment upon himself again.   
  
He allowed her to study him for a moment but did not return her gaze, opting to survey his empty classroom. A hot, tingly sensation wrung its way through his body and he knew before looking at her that Hermione was fixing him with 'that' expression once again. Sure enough, those warm brown eyes were brimming with adulation when he met them with his own obsidian orbs. The compassion within them was so intense that it made him angry, angry that she would so thoughtlessly look at someone like him that way.   
  
"Get out," he hissed, his lips barely moving.   
  
Hermione remained still and unruffled; she had received such callous treatment from him many times by this point. She knew it was because her affection was starting to get to him, creeping into the confines of his soul, and he didn't want it to. She cared not; she would see this through to the very end.   
  
"No." Her voice was soft, but it resonated. She did not move her eyes from his, and he was too proud to look away no matter how furious with her he became.   
  
"What do you mean, 'no'?" he whispered, the shock in his voice a contrast to the blankness of his facial expression.   
  
"Just what I said," Hermione answered softly, and with a finality that he hadn't the strength to counter at that point. She surprised him then by offering forth a small smile, the timidity of which was unlike her at this stage of their friendship.   
  
This unexplainable shyness suffused her movements as she drew closer to him, but this time he did not recoil from her when she stopped just before where he stood. It was with a detached manner that he watched her hand rise carefully, slowly to his face---as if she were dealing with a skittish animal---and begin to ever so gently stroke his lank tresses back from his eyes, tendril by tendril. Her touch was so soft he barely felt it; it was as if the faintest of breezes had blown the hair from his face, rather than the girl's fingertips.   
  
"There," she said at last. He realized with a tinge of regret that the hand had been removed from his hair. "Now I can see what you are thinking." Snape scoffed, but the sound contained only a shade of its usual cruelty.   
  
"How can you tell what one is thinking simply by looking into their face?" he muttered. She had caught him so off guard with her actions that it was difficult for him to remain in his aloof and standoffish persona. His mind felt fuzzy, his thoughts out of focus; all he could decipher through the haze was that this girl shouldn't be standing so close to him. Why couldn't he bring himself to move away from her?  
  
"Haven't you ever heard that old saying, 'the eyes are the mirrors to the soul'?" Hermione asked. It was apparent by his blank expression that he had not. An airy giggle floated past her lips. "Well, I believe that it is true."  
  
"How can you believe something so stupid?" Snape's long-held frustration with the ways of the human race had awakened him from his calm stupor, as if awakening a slumbering dragon from its cave. He raked a hand through his hair roughly, as if to eradicate from his senses the feeling of Hermione's fingers running through it. Hermione blinked in surprise at this sudden return of her snarky Professor.   
  
"W-what?"  
  
"Don't stammer at me, girl, you know what we're discussing here," Snape began in his harsh, lecturing tone. "Some people are far too skilled in the art of deception for someone like yourself to be able to read their true emotions off of their faces like words in the pages of an open book. It's practically impossible."  
  
"I'm going to choose to ignore that 'someone like yourself' remark," Hermione started, her stance and tone rigid with the now familiar suspicion and affront he tended to provoke in her. "But I must ask you why you feel this bizarre need to hide yourself even from the people who care about you! It doesn't make any sense."  
  
"Well, it wouldn't, to someone like yourself," he said again with a withering sneer, openly mocking her. But instead of storming off in a huff like she knew he'd expected her to do, Hermione refused to be cowed by him in the way he intimidated everyone else. She decided to shock him into silence---the way she liked to deal with him---by doing something that would be, by his moralistic standards, appalling.   
  
"Professor, would you like to go out for a walk with me?" she asked softly, a mysterious sparkle in her eyes. He gaped for a moment, then buried his hands in his thick, inky hair. He would not even try to decipher the girl's logic at this point.  
  
"And why would I want to do that with you?" he intoned dryly. "Do you have any idea of what time it is, you silly girl?"  
  
Hermione grimaced at the name, but was determined to get her way. She forced a bright smile onto her lips, an energetic gleam to her eyes.   
  
"Of course I do, Professor. It's only eight o'clock," she replied blithely. "Don't you know that twilight is the most peaceful time to be outside? Especially around here. Just look through that window there! How can we not take advantage of the gift of such a beautiful landscape when it is presented so welcomingly before us? I'm not sure if I believe in any God or not, but one has to think twice when gazing upon the miraculous splendor of---"  
  
"Alright, alright!" Snape threw up his hands in defeat. "We'll take your bloody walk, but then I don't want to see your face around here for at least a week afterwards!"  
  
"Of course, Professor," Hermione acceded, barely being able to contain the laughter from creeping into her voice. As he had done many other times during their acquaintanceship---much to his own surprise more than to anyone else, were they to know of them---he opted to ignore her teasing.   
  
He rose wearily from his seat and led his excited student through several twists and turns in the dungeon hallways (all the while praying fervently that no member of his house saw the two together) until they finally reached a small, fairly inconspicuous wooden door that had been inlaid into the stone of the castle. He knew that it lead to one of Howgwarts' many courtyards, but, due to its location in the school, had become overgrown and somewhat wild from lack of upkeep and patronage. He had spent hours of his youth reading books under its shady trees or simply lying down and thinking on an expanse of its soft, lush grasses. The place had once been very special to him, and he briefly wondered why he was taking Hermione here.   
  
When Snape wrenched the rusting door open, it appeared that the garden hadn't changed a fraction since his last visit there, as if a limit to how dense it was allowed to become had been placed upon it. A gentle gust of fresh air from the doorway wafted over their faces and ruffled their hair; a stark difference from the castle's stuffier atmospheric conditions. One would think that the small courtyard was welcoming them into its gnarled, outstretched arms.   
  
Snape sniffed in the breeze hungrily, eyes closed, and pretended to ignore Hermione's deep intake and then exhalation of breath as he preceded her outside. She was the one who had insisted upon this evening trek, he saw no reason to extend any politeness towards her.   
  
However, Hermione seemed not to notice his lax in courtesy, so taken were her senses by the graceful swaying of the branches, the musical chirping of the crickets, and the deep blues, purples and magentas of the celestial coat that the sky had decided to don for that evening. There were no stars; only blue wisps of clouds streaked the darkening sky to decorate it.   
  
It was the most beautiful sight Hermione had ever seen, and she silently thanked nature for her graciousness in providing it for her. And for Snape.   
  
Snape. She looked around for him, as she had completely forgotten his presence for the last few moments. There he was, perched almost comfortably upon an ancient, intricately carved, white stone bench. Though from what she could make out in the encroaching darkness, his expression was uncommonly serene, there was a heavy sadness which clung to his posture and weighed down his figure. He was like a solitary black storm cloud in the center of a sunny sky, but he could not rain down his troubles. Hermione stalked closer to him, not wishing to disturb whatever solitude he may have been experiencing at that moment.   
  
"You're not walking, Professor," she whispered, a touch of mirth in her tone. He smiled, but did not face her.   
  
"I'm very tired, Hermione," he murmured. "Forgive me."  
  
Hermione's heart stopped dead in her chest for a full three seconds; Severus Snape had just spoken her given name for the second time, and this time she was sure she wasn't mistaken. She knew that anything that she could possibly say regarding that 'slip-up' would not be tolerated well by him, so she decided to file it away in her memory for obsessing over later.   
  
She stood there for several long moments as he sat still as a statue on the bench, observing him without using her eyes. With her head turned towards the ground, she happened to notice that some small yellow flowers were blooming in various patterns around the garden. They were the only species of flora that were visible to the naked eye in the small courtyard, and were all the brighter and cheerier for that reason.   
  
Hermione got an idea just then, one of those that come to you without truly thinking them through, and leaned over to carefully grasp a handful of the little yellow blossoms tightly in her palm. Quietly, she stepped over to where her Professor was sitting and stood next to him, not daring to take a seat beside the imposing man. She reached out a small, cautious hand, and placed it so gently upon his shoulder that he wasn't quite sure he felt anything at all. Snape remained motionless when she bent in close to his ear, but he did feel the coarse tendrils of her hair brushing the shell of his ear and collar as she did so.   
  
"Here."   
  
The word had been whispered so softly that he could only hear her because her lips were right beside his ear. Her breath tickled him, and for a moment he yearned for those soft lips to draw closer to him, to make contact. He turned to reach out a hand to her, but felt only the tips of her ragged tresses graze his fingertips as she flew from him. In a far corner of his mind, the sound of the old, rusty door creaking shut registered. She was gone. He curled his long fingers tightly, frustrated and confused.   
  
And then stilled immediately. There was something frail and soft in his right hand, and he was grasping it. He knew that if he gripped his fists any tighter, whatever it was would crush and fall away to the ground. Slowly, ever so slowly, he inclined his head downwards to look at his hand and see whatever object was clutched within it.   
  
Flowers. He was holding little yellow flowers. He hadn't touched or even noticed a flower in… oh, not for years now. Such a very long time ago. He should let go of them, let them fall to the ground and into the dirt from whence they came, forget about them. But seconds, minutes, hours passed by, and he didn't let them go.   
  
Hermione had given him little yellow flowers, and Severus was crying as he held them in his hand. 


	19. The Root Which Bears Dead Flowers

Beneath the Surface  
  
Chapter the Eighteenthe: The Root Which Bears Dead Flowers  
  
Hermione's feet flew over the cobblestone floors, up the granite staircases, and past the well-worn carpets of Hogwarts castle, stopping only when she reached the door to her dorm. Any who saw her pass them by in the hallways, friend or foe alike, did not dare to impede her flight by questioning her about her obvious chagrin. For, when Hermione Granger was chagrined about something, she was best left well enough alone, lest the unsuspecting well-wisher become chagrined themselves.  
  
The experience with her Professor in his garden had been surreal, had been, dare she think it, romantic. She should have been overjoyed at this moment, positively elated in spirit. She had reached out to Severus Snape once again, and this time it seemed that he had been about to reach back! Why was that so frightening a prospect for her?  
  
Probably because she had never really though through the consequences of such actions. True, she had spent many an hour daydreaming about what it would be like to be touched, kissed, and held by Severus Snape, but she had never truly thought that it would actually happen! Then what had she been thinking all this time? Had she really just been content to love him from afar?  
  
No! Many a night had she lamented on the great chasm of propriety and morals that separated them from one another; many a night had she yearned to go to him and say 'to hell with society! Let us be together'. Or something to that effect. But when she thought about it, really thought about it, she knew that she would be scared if Snape just reached over one day and grabbed her to him, possibly even scream if he tried to kiss her. He was her elder, her teacher!  
  
Oh, she had never been so confused in all her young life. She still wanted him so badly, but was it just the idea of him, or the actuality, that she was craving? Thus far, she had been doing ok just living off of the idea of him (and the fantasies it provoked in her), but what good was 'ok' in the long run? What did she get out of it? Where would she be if she never took that risk and simply reached out and touched him, and allowed him to touch her.  
  
Hah. As if he would allow himself to touch her.  
  
In any case, her mind was far too inundated by these new possibilities (that shouldn't have been 'new' to her at all) to be able to sift through them rationally on her own. She needed to speak to a friend, and help was just beyond the threshold before her.  
  
When Hermione swung open the door to the Gryffindor girls' rooms, she sighed in relief when she saw Ginny Weasley perched daintily in a chair by one of the far end windows, quietly studying a transfiguration text. Since the unfortunate events with Tom Riddle's diary in her First Year, the girl had changed from a painfully shy little thing into an outgoing, openly friendly young lady. It was as if the havoc she had unknowingly wreaked upon the school the year before had not affected her psyche at all; nowhere could one find a more emotionally stable adolescent girl in the entire school.  
  
But Hermione knew better. The two girls' friendship had been cemented by the events of the year before, and they confided such personal information in each other that they wouldn't dare let loose upon the ignorant ears of any other soul. Almost every night, Ginny would creep silently into Hermione's bed, and the two would speak for hours of their sorrows, their regrets, their shames and their hopes for a better life for each of them.  
  
This 'better life' for Ginny was one without the constant reminder of the charms and temptations of Tom Riddle; for Hermione, it was either one that did not include the ever-present shadow of her tempestuous Potions Master, or one in which she and Severus Snape lived happily together in a cottage by the sea, depending on her disposition towards the man.  
  
Hermione had been greatly unsettled by her earlier rendezvous (if one could even call it that; Gods knew Snape wouldn't) with Professor Snape in his garden, and she'd burst into the girls' dorm in the hopes that her younger friend would be there. The red-haired girl looked up at Hermione's breathy entrance, shock gently arching her brows and widening her green eyes, but she kept her small mouth shut, awaiting the older girl's inevitable explanation for her distress.  
  
"Ginny, I'm so glad I found you here," Hermione panted, rushing over to take the seat opposite her friend.  
  
A small table had been placed between these chairs, and on it was always set a small tea service, the pot of which was charmed to be forever filled with hot chamomile tea (intended to help relieve the stress of students who were studying for exams). Ginny poured Hermione a cup of it, and handed it to her carefully before speaking.  
  
"Calm down, Hermione," she said in that soft, soothing voice of hers. "What is the problem? Does it have to do with... him?" Hermione looked up at her friend knowingly.  
  
"You know me too well, Gin," she quipped uneasily, the confusion of the previous events with Snape were still causing her stomach to churn. "Isn't it strange how, whenever we get close to getting the thing we most want, it frightens us when the time comes to claim it?" Hermione laughed mirthlessly. "I know that doesn't make any sense, but..."  
  
"No, I know just what you mean," Ginny assured her, then looked down sheepishly. "Did you two... did something... happen?"  
  
"No, no, nothing like that!" Hermione insisted, putting up a firm hand. "No, we just went outside for a walk. He took me into his garden."  
  
"Oh, did he now? Into his garden, eh?" Ginny asked, mischief twinkling in her eyes. Hermione punched her shoulder playfully, and they both giggled. Then Hermione became serious.  
  
"He has this... sort of private garden that no one else visits but him, and it's so hard to find I don't think even I remember how to get to it," Hermione began. "The trees and plants were untended and wild, and the grasses were overgrown, but... the sunset, and the sky and the clouds, they were so vibrant, and the contrast of their colors to the darkness of the trees... It was the most beautiful place I'd ever been to in my life. And he was just sitting there, silent as a statue, as I looked around. I think he went off somewhere then, somewhere in his memory..." Hermione smiled self- consciously, realizing that she had been rambling. But when she looked over to Ginny, the expression on her friend's face was one of serene happiness.  
  
"I think that's wonderful, Hermione," Ginny said, putting a gentle hand on her friend's. "He invited you into his garden, into his private place, and let you look around." But then she cocked her head to one side, her features growing pensive. "Then why did you run away from him? What frightened you?"  
  
"His sadness," Hermione answered without thinking. Then she ducked her head, knitting her eyebrows broodingly. "I don't know, Gin... it was like I didn't deserve to be in there. Like I could never hope to understand him and what he loves, if he loves anything at all."  
  
"If you hang about a while, maybe he might love you," Ginny teased her, winking suggestively. Hermione giggled and scoffed in mock exasperation.  
  
"Ginny, really!" Hermione laughed with her friend for a moment, but then a shadow of darkness crossed over her features, marring them from the light the two had previously shared.  
  
"I'm afraid of myself when I'm with him," she said softly. "I do and say things that appall me when I am away from him, I just don't know where they come from. It's like I'm a completely different person when I'm with him, one completely driven by---" She could not bring herself to finish her sentence, but she did not need to. Ginny Weasley understood what Hermione was feeling all too well. She reached out and took her friend's hand in her own once again, cradling it gently as the two looked out the window in silence.  
  
"I know, Hermione," Ginny all but whispered. "I know exactly what you mean."  
  
"You know what what means?" a voice suddenly cut through the two friends' silent reverie. Hermione and Ginny's heads whipped around as one to face the intruder; two pairs of eyes rolled and sighs were released as they realized who the disturber of their peace was.  
  
"Ron, you're not supposed to be in here, it's the girls' dorm," Ginny scolded her brother, then fixed him with a wicked expression. "Unless there's something Mum's never told us."  
  
Ronald Weasley sneered at his younger sister and turned his attention to a giggling Hermione.  
  
"Yeah, well, Fred and George say they've invented a new creation and they want everyone down in the Common Room to see it. Me and Harry came to fetch you two," he explained. Harry's head miraculously popped out from behind Ron's shoulder upon hearing his name. He was looking around the room warily, having never set foot inside the girls' dorm before.  
  
Ginny blushed and bowed her head, causing Hermione to shoot her a conspiratorial glance. Ginny had always been in awe of Harry's fame, and in a young girl, that often translated to feelings of a more romantic nature as well. Ginny was no exception.  
  
"Alright, we'll be down in a moment, alright?" Hermione told the boys. Ron nodded.  
  
"Alright, but hurry up! I've a feeling you won't want to miss this!" he said excitedly, and then disappeared from the room, leaving Harry standing awkwardly in the doorframe.  
  
"Er...yeah," he mumbled, eyes still darting cautiously about the room from behind his thick glasses. "See you, then!" He offered the two a clumsy wave and then was gone faster than you could say 'skiving snackbox'. Harry was very timid when it came to members of the opposite sex, and merely being in the girls' dorm seemed to have overloaded his mind.  
  
Hermione and Ginny both had a good laugh at the boys' expense before deciding to join their comrades in the Common Room for whatever elicit entertainment the infamous Weasley twins were sure to have cooked up.  
  
Severus Snape stared unwaveringly at his reflection in the large, ancient mirror that was perched atop his equally antique vanity table. The man who was looking back at him appeared very tired and slightly distraught. There was a deeply etched crease carved into the very center of his dark brows which feathered out into several fainter lines in his forehead. Severus sneered derisively at his own face before allowing his head to fall limp.  
  
He had taken a scalding shower in an attempt to scrub off the filth that his mind had produced in the garden with that child, but the memory would not leave him. Most people would not call the desire to be held by another who cared for them a dirty one, but, remembering his past and knowing his weaknesses, Severus would.  
  
His longish black hair had been mussed by the raking back of long, thin hands, and jagged chunks of it framed his defined cheekbones and tickled the tops of his naked shoulder blades. He had a very long, elegant neck which led to a masculine yet elegantly crafted set of clavicles. His torso was lean and streamlined, but the faint shadowing of muscles rippled down its expanse, as did the stubborn impressions his ribcage and bones made in his pale skin.  
  
His long, strong and sinewy arms rested gently on the table top before him, and he took a moment to study the indigo-colored veins which lined their way delicately from his wrists to the crooks of his elbows. His hands were beautiful beyond compare; both so hard and so soft at the same time, they were like wrought iron molded into flesh. Unnaturally long fingers extended with the utmost grace and gentility from skin that appeared to be crafted of the finest marble. His hands were white as snow and just as cold to the touch, except for his palms, which contained within them the heat of all the extraordinary magical power he possessed within his body.  
  
Severus thought long and hard about just what these hands were capable of; instances where he remembered demonstrating their despicable power flitted past his eyes like cards in a slide show. He did not wish to view each spectacle in its entirety.  
  
Tainted hands such as his should never be allowed to touch anything that is good and pure. He should never touch her with these hands, not even in the most innocent of manners, never.  
  
'Who do you think you are, snake, that you would dare to desire such a creature of the light? Deep in the darkness is where you belong, and that is where I will make sure that you stay.'  
  
Severus sighed in resignation. There was no arguing with that logic, he knew it to be correct.  
  
The bright yellow flowers that Hermione had given him in the garden had been placed in a small urn atop his vanity table. Somehow, they had remained clutched in his hand as he made his way back to his rooms. He had seriously thought of throwing them into the fire, so as to literally burn away the memories that now clung to them (a practice of which he was fond); but before they could fall from his hand and into the flames, he clenched them even more tightly and swiftly turned from the grate.  
  
He could not let them go. For the worthless life of him, he could not let her flowers go.  
  
So here they stood, already wilting in an inappropriately harsh and cold black urn, a small altar to the girl's compassion for him next to his mirror.  
  
He would keep these simple blossoms there long after they had dried up and wilted, and would gaze upon them whenever he had let loose his anger upon the girl, had rejected so pitilessly her feelings and shut her out of his life.  
  
He would always let her back in again, but until that joyous reunion, he would content himself by concentrating on the dry, dead flowers and hoping against hope that she knew that he was thinking of her. 


	20. The Constraints of Time can be such a Dr...

A/N: once again, I have lifted some of JKR's dialogue into this chapter; it's for plot purposes only, and I am giving her full credit for it. This installment does deal with Hermione's use of the time turner, but I have manipulated the facts in my own way so that it is much different than JKR's version of the chapter. Hermione's time turning will be expounded upon in later chapters, but I figured that my writing might confuse some people, so I wanted to explain myself to you all before you read it:P.  
  
Also, I have a challenge to put to you, my readers, tonight (or this morning, afternoon, evening, or whatever else the case may be for you:P). Can you tell which of the characters in this chapter have crushes on which of the other characters, and which of the characters have the wrong idea concerning the relationships of two other characters, romantically speaking? (Did I write the words 'which' and 'characters' enough?;D) If you answer correctly, you get a cookie of some sort; I don't know, like having your name put in as an anonymous Hogwarts student or something in a future chapter.  
  
But whether you choose to accept this challenge or not, which you certainly do not have to, please do read on and I hope you enjoy it!  
  
Beneath the Surface  
  
Chapter the Nineteenthe: The Constraints of Time can be such a Drag  
  
It was a dark and forbidding Saturday morning, the expanse of pale grey sky covered with dull, blackened clouds that were so heavy they looked about to release a torrent of rain at any second. The best they could do for that early morning, however, was let loose a slow, gloomy drizzle.  
  
It was Severus Snape's kind of day. He felt a rare kinship with nature when it resembled his state of mind, as it did now. Otherwise, he didn't pay much attention to his earthly surroundings.  
  
Though he had always been an early riser by habit, Severus was a solitary person and preferred the company of himself alone until afternoon broke the tranquil spell of the morning sun's gossamer light. While not a compulsive man by any means, he did insist upon having at least an hour to get dressed and to prepare for the day's classes. Thus far, this pleasantly dreary morning was not unlike any other in the seemingly perpetual routine that was Severus' life.  
  
If he could have been blessed with the gift of foresight like that blasted woman Trelawney (whom he believed to be a fraud anyway, as well as a complete idiot), he would have feigned illness for the first time since he'd been a student at Hogwarts and spent the day curled cozily up in bed.  
  
The series of events that were soon to occur would be recorded harrowingly in his memory for the rest of his life.  
  
"Settle down, settle down," Professor Snape idly told Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle and Pansy Parkinson. The three boys bowed their heads in acknowledgement of his admonition, but continued their conversation in hushed tones.  
  
Pansy Parkinson, however, silenced immediately, the sound of her mouth snapping shut just audible. She stared up at her Professor reverently, her small blue eyes shining. But though Snape felt her eyes fixed upon him (as a trained spy would do), he thought nothing of her attention and the girl was promptly erased from his consciousness.  
  
Besides, at the moment, he was far too busy pretending not to notice the vile look being sent his way by Hermione, who was seated several rows down from his desk. They'd had several conversations about the blatant favoritism he displayed for his Slytherins over any other House, but, as did many of their arguments, those discussions had gone nowhere.  
  
When Professor Snape ordered Ron to cut up the daisy roots of the 'injured' Draco Malfoy (whom Harry, Ron and Hermione didn't believe was truly hurt in the slightest), Hermione's cheeks had flushed with anger; had the speeches she'd given Snape on the subject of fairness had no impact on him whatsoever?  
  
'Most likely not,' she grumbled inwardly. 'It seems that loyalty to one's family or friends is far more important to a Slytherin than their honor.'  
  
Though her Professor was not in one of his worst moods today, he was still taking it upon himself to insult and degrade her friends far more than was necessary. And, despite the secret camaraderie between herself and Snape, he would still reprimand and humiliate her on a regular basis in his class. Perhaps he was making extra sure that no one knew of their friendship, because, to all outward appearances, it seemed that she was his least favorite student besides Harry, Ron and Neville.  
  
Speaking of Neville Longbottom, it seemed that the unfortunate lad had incurred Snape's wrath once again. Hermione winced in trepidation; she had a fair idea of the scene that was sure to play out.  
  
Snape stalked past her on his way to Neville's bubbling cauldron (the contents of which Hermione knew were mixed incorrectly, despite her discreet efforts to assist her friend), his flowing cape brushing her arm roughly. She shivered.  
  
"Orange, Longbottom," Snape pronounced disdainfully. "Tell me, boy, does anything penetrate that thick skull of yours? Didn't you hear me say, quite clearly, that only one rat spleen was needed? Didn't I state plainly that a dash of leech juice would suffice? What do I have to do to make you understand, Longbottom?"  
  
His words struck Neville forcefully, injuring his pride as the sharpened blade of a well-aimed sword would cut through one's skin. The boy trembled, and appeared to be on the verge of tears. Hermione pursed her lips tightly, willing herself not to say anything, or, even worse, to get up and slap her Professor one across the face like he deserved. Calming herself with several deep breaths, she moved closer to the two with the intention of placating Snape's wrath and smoothing this situation out.  
  
"Please, sir," she forced herself to say in a meek and polite manner, furious though she was. "Please, I could help Neville put it right---"  
  
"I don't remember asking you to show off, Miss Granger," Snape snapped, flinty eyes boring into hers. Hermione said nothing, but returned his cold glare with equal force. Ignoring her, Snape turned back to Neville, a sadistic gleam mounting in those black eyes.  
  
"Longbottom, at the end of this lesson we will feed a few drops of this potion to your toad and see what happens. Perhaps that will encourage you to do it properly."  
  
Neville implored Hermione with his eyes as Snape strode arrogantly past them and back to his place at the front of the class. "Help me, Hermione!"  
  
Hermione nodded to him, her eyes filled with genuine sympathy. Appalled at Snape's treatment of her friend, she planned to have a little chat with him after class. She knew he would not appreciate her coming to him during school hours, but she also knew that she wouldn't be able to hold in her anger until the end of the day.  
  
She did not notice Snape watching her and Neville's quiet exchange with dark, hooded eyes.  
  
Hermione could hear Harry, Ron and Seamus talking excitedly about something that had to do with Sirius Black, the madman who had recently escaped from Azkaban, but she was concentrating too closely on helping Neville attempt to fix his potion to listen to what they were saying. After a few moments had passed by, Snape strode over to Neville's cauldron, a malicious grin on his face as he inspected its contents. Hermione's lip curled.  
  
"Everyone gather 'round," Snape said, his black eyes glittering, "and watch what happens to Longbottom's toad. If he has managed to produce a Shrinking Solution, it will shrink to a tadpole. If, as I don't doubt, he has done it wrong, his toad is likely to be poisoned."  
  
Here was the wicked and depraved side of Snape that Hermione could not abide nor understand for the life of her; she often wondered how she could have fallen for such a man. Of course, as she and her classmates all watched---the Gryffindors with fear, the Slytherins with excitement---their Professor ladle a few drops of Neville's potion down his beloved toad's gullet, Hermione harbored no feelings for her Professor save for revulsion.  
  
Trevor (the name of Neville's toad), gulped down the solution trustingly, and the students gulped in their breaths collectively as he disappeared in a puff of smoke seconds later. Thankfully, Hermione's whispered instructions to Neville had indeed corrected his potion, for there in Snape's hand lay not a dead toad but a tiny, wriggling tadpole.  
  
The Gryffindors burst into a rollicking round of applause for Neville's success. Snape, face as sour as a petulant child, pulled a small vial from the pocket of his robes and poured several drops from it onto the tadpole, which promptly became Trevor the toad once again.  
  
Snape deposited the toad into Neville's awaiting hands as if it were beneath him to hold the creature, scowling at the boy's profusely relieved and beaming face. He waited until the boy's eyes met his own before giving him a meaningful sneer whose power could wither the freshest of spring flowers.  
  
"Five points from Gryffindor," Snape said, wiping the smiles from everyone's faces. Then he fixed Hermione with a pointed glare. "I told you not to help him, Miss Granger. Class dismissed."  
  
Hermione's lips opened wide, her mouth ready to emit a scathing retort to her Professor, but she remembered herself and clamped it shut once again. Instead, her feet remained firmly planted to the cold stone floor as the rest of the students, including Harry and Ron, rushed from the classroom. Pansy Parkinson was the last student to leave, and she glared at Hermione suspiciously before reluctantly exiting the classroom as well.  
  
Snape knew Hermione hadn't left the room, and he knew why as well, but he pretended that he could not see her as he bent over his desk to squint at a rolled open parchment. After several seconds of his stubborn and childish silent treatment, Hermione could hold herself back no longer and stalked angrily to where he stood.  
  
"Professor," she growled between gritted teeth. "Just what was that all about?"  
  
Snape's head snapped up, eyes flashing menacingly as he faced the girl. He had expected her to criticize his treatment of Neville, but the defiant gleam in her eyes and the authority in her voice infuriated him to no end.  
  
"How dare you speak to me that way." His voice was so soft it was barely audible, its timbre reminiscent of a slithering snake; his most dangerous tone. Hermione flinched, but did not back down an inch.  
  
"How dare I?" she burst out. "How dare you treat Neville that way! It's true that he's not the most gifted of students, but he tries hard, and he didn't deserve to be humiliated like that in front of the entire--"  
  
Her righteous rant had been cut off by Snape's laughter, a vile, scornful sound. It made her blood curdle in her veins.  
  
"Neville Longbottom," he said the name mockingly. "That boy is as thick as War and Peace. And you, silly girl, thinking I wouldn't see that you were assisting him against my orders."  
  
"'Against your orders'? You speak as if you're running a prison!" Hermione screeched at him. "He needs help, and if you, his own teacher, won't give it to him than I will!"  
  
Snape scoffed contemptuously, his left nostril curling as if in disgust. "From the looks of things, I'll bet that's not all that you're 'helping' him with," he accused her scornfully.  
  
Hermione's mouth flew open, but no sound came out of it. She was so shocked by what Snape was implying of her and Neville that no words would come to her, not even a denial of his accusations, which she knew to be false.  
  
But Hermione was an unusually perceptive girl, and a realization came to her that caused a small smile to spread her lips, and her eyes narrowed in malicious triumph.  
  
"You're jealous! Aren't you?" Her voice was suffused with disbelief. She was practically laughing, such an unexpected success was this in their constant battles for control.  
  
Snape's own eyes widened as if he had not meant to say what he had said, but his features quickly contorted into a sickened scowl, attempting to cover up his own unanticipated vulnerability.  
  
"And what do I have to be jealous about?" he looked her up and down derisively. "You're a scrawny, distasteful little know-it-all, and the very thought of even touching you sends shivers down my spine."  
  
There was a small part of Snape that felt awful about telling this to her, but, to his conscience's credit, he didn't specify whether the shivers were good or bad.  
  
But his spiteful words still produced the desired affect upon Hermione, for the wounded expression on her face was purely heart-wrenching. Tears filled her eyes, but she was too hurt and proud to allow them to fall in front of him. Before she could even think it through, she lifted her right hand back and cut it across the air, aiming sharply for Snape's cheek.  
  
However, Snape had been born with excellent reflexes, and they had been cultivated to reach a catlike perfection by the too often strenuous circumstances of his life. He caught her wrist in his hand just before it made contact with his face, and held it tightly.  
  
Neither moved an inch as they stood there face to face, Snape keeping a firm hold on her wrist while they stared each other down. Hermione's eyes glittered with pain and anger, but Snape met them only with his own black and empty stare. The ability to feel any kind of passion that wasn't born out of the most visceral of emotions had been beaten out of him long ago.  
  
"If you knew what you do to me, you'd be sorry you ever said such things," Hermione whispered to him, her voice deeply pained.  
  
A spark entered Snape's black eyes then that she had never before seen in another person's; it was a fairly frightening, feral gleam. He let go of her wrist and grabbed her shoulders with both of his hands, dragging her closer to him so they were only an inch apart. His eyes bored into hers intensely.  
  
"Oh, I am sorry, Hermione," he hissed at her. "More sorry than you could ever know." The indomitable strength in his features faltered and he tilted his head, lowering it to hers. "You do more to me than you think you do."  
  
His eyes fell to her lips, which were slightly parted and trembling. He flicked his tongue across his own lips, making his intentions quite clear to Hermione.  
  
But she had never kissed anyone before; what was she supposed to do? Her heart beat wildly in her chest, its exertions borne both from fear and desire, and she could not stop herself from panting quietly.  
  
Snape's eyes widened suddenly as he realized just what he was doing, and with whom. He'd no idea what had come over him, and was so appalled with his behavior that he threw the girl back from him forcefully. His right hand shot up to shield his eyes from her sight, so great was his shame.  
  
"I—I'm terribly sorry, Miss Granger, it was..." he stammered, his voice very soft and timid, almost boyish despite its masculine timbre.  
  
"It's alright, Professor. I didn't... mind." She offered him a shy, encouraging smile which he did not see, and reached out her hands to comfort him, but he shied away from them as if she had drawn knives on him.  
  
"No, no, I shouldn't have..." He paused in his apology, his eyebrows knitting together as he rose a hand to cup his chin. He thought deeply on the situation they had gotten themselves into for a long moment before speaking again, and when he did, his tone was that of the composed Professor whom Hermione was used to.  
  
"Listen, I have another class in twenty minutes, and I have yet to prepare for it, but... we need to discuss this... situation. Here."  
  
He bent over his desk to scribble something hastily on a blank piece of parchment, then tore the section with his writing off of the roll and thrust it into her trembling hands. She raised her eyebrows at him in question, still too deeply in shock to think to read the scrap of paper. Though he refused to look at her, he could sense her confusion.  
  
"These are directions to a place in the castle that is difficult to locate," he explained to her. "I want you to follow them and meet me there at eight o'clock tonight. Is that alright with you?" he asked as if on second thought.  
  
"Y-yes, Professor," Hermione said. "I'll be there."  
  
A moment of extraordinarily awkward and tense silence passed them by in which they stood opposite each other, their bodies motionless. All of a sudden Snape made to reach out to her again, this time in a supplicating gesture, but forced his body still. He nodded at her rigidly, still not daring to look in her direction, took his seat behind his large desk and immediately began sorting through parchments.  
  
Hermione took this as her cue to leave the classroom, and so did just that, exiting the room practically at a run. But she froze dead in her tracks when she realized that she had been arguing with Snape for almost a half an hour now... her friends were bound to find something amiss with that.  
  
She knew she wasn't supposed to use it for anything except for her studies, but, in her frenetic state, she decided that she would be forced to use it anyway.  
  
She pulled a long, golden chain on which a tiny, sparkling hourglass was suspended from beneath the neckline of her sweater and clutched it in her hand. She brought it close to her eyes and focused intently upon it before turning the petite hourglass over only a fraction, being very careful not to jostle it.  
  
She was beginning to get used to the sensation of being hurtled backwards through time, but she was still left dizzy and off-balance when she made her way once again through the potions wing.  
  
She was still very unruffled, both mentally and physically, when she emerged into the chill dungeon corridor and started up the steps to the upper level of the castle.  
  
"There she is," a familiar voice emanated from several steps ahead of her.  
  
She looked up to see Harry and Ron standing patiently together on the staircase. She had known that they would be waiting for her. Panting audibly, both from the incident with Snape just moments before and from having made use of the powers contained within her secret necklace, Hermione went to stand beside them and compose herself.  
  
Realizing that she was still clutching the shred of parchment that Snape had given her in her hand, she hastily tucked it into an inner pocket of her robe without thinking that the boys would have noticed the action.  
  
"What's that?" Ron asked, nodding with his head toward the paper that she had shoved into her robe.  
  
Her heart plummeted sickeningly into her stomach, and her face paled considerably. She opened her mouth to explain, but no plausible ruse came readily to mind, and she'd be damned before she told them the truth of the matter.  
  
"Yeah, did Snape give you a detention or something?" Harry piped in, unaware of her inner struggle. Ron rolled his eyes, expecting an affirmative answer from her.  
  
That meant neither of them knew what had gone on. A relieved smile broke out on Hermione's face.  
  
'How could they have known?' She mentally scolded herself. 'Where is that superior intellect of yours, girl? He can't have taken it completely away from you.'  
  
"Yeah, I have to report to him at eight," Hermione told them, feigning irritation. Before the boys could say anything else, however, a seam in Hermione's sturdy knapsack chose that moment to split open. Several of the dozen or so textbooks therein spilled out onto the floor, and she quickly bent to pick them up.  
  
'This is just not my day. How many secrets am I expected to keep from everyone at one time?' she thought, harried. 'A Gryffindor is ill-equipped to hide this many things from their friends. I suppose I'll just have to lie to them here, too; gods, but I despise lying!'  
  
"Why are you carrying all these around with you?" Ron asked her. Hermione smiled nervously at him.  
  
"You know how many subjects I'm taking," she said breathlessly. "Couldn't hold these for me, could you?"  
  
"But---" Ron was turning over the books she had handed to him, looking at the covers. "You haven't got any of these subjects today. It's only DADA this afternoon."  
  
"Oh, yes," she replied vaguely, continuing to pack the books into her overflowing pack. Once again, the brilliant idea of distracting her friends from her personal issues with food popped into her head. "I hope there's something good for lunch, I'm starving." She marched off towards the Great Hall with Harry and Ron closely in tow.  
  
"D'you get the feeling Hermione's not telling us something?" Ron whispered to Harry so their friend wouldn't hear.  
  
"Quite often, actually," he replied. "But I figure it's not my place to pry."  
  
Ron frowned for a moment, but upon catching a whiff of the delectable goodies the house elves had prepared for their meal, he shrugged and continued on to the Great Hall.  
  
Hermione thanked whatever gods had bestowed their favor upon her that afternoon for allowing her to keep her secrets to herself. Taking care of the one with Professor Snape should be simple enough, but this other one with her... extra books, would prove to be far more difficult to conceal from her friends.  
  
Defense Against the Dark Arts was right after lunch for Hermione, Harry and Ron, and they made sure to be in class early, even though their Professor, Remus Lupin, wasn't in attendance yet.  
  
Professor Lupin was a very friendly and often playful person, and though he almost always appeared tired and rundown, his demeanor was always gentle and kind. He was a comely man, but was always dressed in shabby, dusty robes. Though he was thought to be somewhere in his mid-thirties, his hair was flecked with gray and he moved with the air of an old man who possessed a great deal of life experience.  
  
Unbeknownst to the students, Lupin had a particularly unusual lesson planned for that day, the events of which would turn out to surprise even himself.  
  
After arriving and then bidding them a good afternoon, he led his confused class past a deserted corridor, around a corner and then through another hallway before stopping outside of what turned out to be the staffroom door.  
  
"Inside, please," said Professor Lupin, opening it and standing back.  
  
The staffroom, full of old, mismatched chairs, was empty except for one teacher. Professor Snape was sitting in a low armchair, and he looked around as the class filed into the room.  
  
He and Hermione found each other instantly, and their eyes locked together as if drawn by magnets, both extremely shocked to so suddenly be confronted with the other. An intense blush spread across Hermione's cheeks and nose, and Snape's complexion paled considerably. They swiftly averted their eyes at the same time, each doing their absolute best to pretend that the other's presence did not affect them in any unusual way whatsoever.  
  
Professor Lupin was the last to enter the room and made to close the door behind him, but Snape stopped him before he could.  
  
"Leave it open, Lupin. I'd rather not witness this."  
  
Hermione's head was bowed low to the ground, but she could hear the subtle swishing of Snape's heavy robes as he strode past the students. Before leaving the room, however, he turned at the doorway and said, "Possibly no one's warned you, Lupin, but this class contains Neville Longbottom. I would advise you not to trust him with anything difficult. Not unless Miss Granger is hissing instructions in his ear."  
  
Hermione bit her lip sharply, incensed at his open insulting of both herself and Neville so soon after they had just shared such an intimate moment together.  
  
'He just has to have the last word, doesn't he?' she thought bitterly. But despite her indignation, it was still very difficult to quell the amorous stirrings which arose in her abdomen at her Professor's vile words; she didn't think they would have affected her in such a manner had she and Snape not come so close to kissing just an hour before. Now she realized, with no little amount of shame, that even Snape's cruelty inflamed her desire for him. Blast her treacherous heart!  
  
She abruptly raised her head, willing those turbulent thoughts from her mind, and prepared to pay her full attention to Professor Lupin. After all, she was in his class now.  
  
"I was hoping that Neville would assist me with the first stage of the operation," Lupin was saying, "and I am sure he will perform it admirably."  
  
Neville's face went red with both embarrassment and pride, and he didn't even notice Snape's lip curling at him in an evil sneer, nor did he hear him slam the door loudly as he left the room.  
  
"Now, then," began Professor Lupin, steering the students' attention away from Snape's rude exit and back to his lesson.  
  
He beckoned the class toward the end of the room, where there was nothing but an old wardrobe in which the teachers kept their spare robes. As Professor Lupin went to stand next to it, the wardrobe gave a sudden wobble, banging off the wall. Many of the children had jumped back, startled, but Lupin's expression remained calm as always.  
  
"Nothing to worry about," he said, "there's a boggart in there."  
  
Most of the people in the room felt that this was indeed something to worry about; Neville gave Professor Lupin a look of pure terror, and Seamus Finnigan eyed the now rattling doorknob apprehensively. Hermione was too interested in what Professor Lupin would be teaching them to be too afraid of the creature in the wardrobe, and was keeping her composure well; however, this was largely because she was very grateful for the distraction it provided from thoughts of Professor Snape.  
  
No matter what was bothering her, she could always lose herself in the thrilling opportunity to be able to learn something new.  
  
"Boggarts like dark, enclosed spaces," Professor Lupin was explaining. "Wardrobes, the gap beneath beds, the cupboards under sinks---I've even met one that had lodged itself in a grandfather clock. This one moved in yesterday afternoon, and I asked the Headmaster if the staff would leave it to give my Third Years some practice." He now turned to fully face the students, allowing his eyes to rest briefly upon each fascinated face before regarding the class as a whole.  
  
"So, the first question we must ask ourselves is, what is a boggart?"  
  
Hermione, ecstatic as always that she knew the answer and that she could reveal it to the ignorant masses around her, put up her hand quickly.  
  
"It's a shape-shifter," she said. "It can take the shape of whatever it thinks will frighten us most."  
  
"Couldn't have put it better myself," said Professor Lupin. Hermione glowed with pride.  
  
'Why couldn't I have chosen this Professor to get a crush on?'  
  
"So the boggart sitting in the darkness within has not yet assumed a form," Professor Lupin continued. "He does not yet know what will frighten the person on the other side of the door. Nobody knows what a boggart looks like when he is alone, but when I let him out, he will immediately become whatever each of us most fears."  
  
Neville emitted a small sputter of terror, but Professor Lupin politely ignored it and went on with his lecture.  
  
"This means that we have a huge advantage over the boggart before we begin. Have you spotted it, Harry?"  
  
'Oh, don't ask him! He's a complete thickie,' Hermione mentally pled with her Professor, bobbing up and down on the balls of her feet with her hand in the air. To her surprise, however, Harry answered the question correctly.  
  
"Er---because there are so many of us, it won't know what shape it should be?"  
  
"Precisely," said Professor Lupin. Though disappointed that she hadn't gotten to answer the question, she was happy that her friend had been correct in his answer. Perhaps all of the academic drilling that she imposed upon he and Ron was beginning to pay off. Lupin continued speaking.  
  
"It's always best to have company when you're dealing with a boggart. He becomes confused. Which should he become, a headless corpse or a flesh- eating slug? I once saw a boggart make that very mistake---tried to frighten two people at once and turned himself into half a slug. Not remotely frightening.  
  
"The charm that repels a boggart is simple, yet it requires force of mind. You see, a thing that really finishes a boggart is laughter. What you need to do is force it to assume a shape that you find amusing." Now Lupin paused and assumed a defensive stance, making it clear to everyone that the practical part of the lesson was about to begin.  
  
"We will practice the charm without wands first. After me, please... riddikulus!"  
  
"Riddikulus!" repeated the class together.  
  
"Good," said Professor Lupin. "Very good. But that was the easy part, I'm afraid. You see, the word alone is not enough. And," here he looked over at Neville and smiled encouragingly. "This is where you come in, Neville."  
  
The wardrobe chose this moment to shake again, but not as much as Neville, who walked forward to his Professor as if he were heading to the gallows.  
  
"Right, Neville," said Professor Lupin. "First things first: what would you say is the thing that frightens you most in the world?"  
  
Neville's lips moved, but no noise came out.  
  
"Didn't catch that, Neville, sorry," said Professor Lupin cheerfully.  
  
Neville looked around rather wildly, as though begging someone to help him, but when none seemed forthcoming from anyone around him, he said, in barely more than a whisper, "Professor Snape."  
  
Nearly everyone laughed at this answer. Even Neville grinned apologetically. Professor Lupin, however, looked thoughtful.  
  
"Professor Snape...hmmm...Neville, I believe you live with your grandmother?"  
  
"Er---yes," Neville replied nervously. "But---I don't want the boggart to turn into her either."  
  
"No, no, you misunderstand me," said Professor Lupin, now smiling. "I wonder, could you tell us what sort of clothes your grandmother usually wears?"  
  
Neville looked startled, baffled by this line of questioning, but said, "Well... always the same hat. A tall one with a stuffed vulture on top. And a long dress... green, normally... and sometimes a fox-fur scarf."  
  
"And a hand-bag?" prompted Professor Lupin, a mischievous grin on his face that none of the students could decipher.  
  
"A big red one," said Neville.  
  
"Right then," said Professor Lupin, seeming very satisfied with Neville's answers to his questions. "Can you picture those clothes very clearly, Neville? Can you see them in your mind's eye?"  
  
"Yes," answered Neville uncertainly, plainly wondering what was coming next.  
  
"When the boggart bursts out of this wardrobe, Neville, and sees you, it will assume the form of Professor Snape," Lupin said, his tone slightly giddy with excitement. "And you will raise your wand---thus---and cry 'Riddikulus'---and concentrate hard on your grandmother's clothes. If all goes well, Professor Boggart Snape will be forced into that vulture-topped hat, and that green dress, with that big red handbag."  
  
The entire class, including Hermione, shouted with laughter. The wardrobe wobbled more violently, and everyone quieted down and focused upon it, anxious to see what would happen when it was opened.  
  
"If Neville is successful, the boggart is likely to shift his attention to each of us in turn," said Professor Lupin. I would like all of you to take a moment now to think of the thing that scares you most, and imagine how you might force it to look comical..."  
  
The room went quiet. Hermione thought long and hard, but could not come up with anything that frightened her at all, let alone 'the most of all'.  
  
No... now she had it: failing at anything she had set her heart, mind and soul to accomplishing was her most absolute, bone-chattering fear. She shivered as the loss of a particular person came to mind.  
  
"Take its legs off," Ron muttered, shifting Hermione's concentration onto him and off of her fears. She laughed, knowing his greatest fear was of spiders, as unlikely as that seemed when looking at the tall, gangly yet strong boy. He shot her and Harry, who had giggled as well, a dirty look.  
  
"Everyone ready?" asked Professor Lupin, and everyone, including Hermione, Harry and Ron, focused their full attention on him and Neville.  
  
Hermione gulped, knowing that she would absolutely die of embarrassment if the boggart chose her after Neville and the entire class saw a vision of Professor Snape rejecting her. She slunk behind Ron and Harry, hoping to obscure herself from the boggart's sight when it emerged from the wardrobe.  
  
"Neville, we're going to back away," said Professor Lupin. "Let you have a clear field, alright? I'll call the next person forward.... Everyone back now, so Neville can get a clear shot---"  
  
The students all retreated, backing against the walls, leaving Neville alone beside the wardrobe. He looked pale and frightened, but he ha pushed up the sleeves of his robes and was holding his wand ready.  
  
"On the count of three, Neville," said Professor Lupin, who was pointing his own wand at the handle of the wardrobe. "One---two---three---now!"  
  
A jet of sparks shot from the end of Professor Lupin's wand and hit the doorknob. The wardrobe burst open. Hook-nosed and menacing, Professor Snape stepped out, his eyes flashing at Neville. Hermione's heart skipped a beat.  
  
'It's not really him, it's not really him...'  
  
Neville backed away, his wand up, mouthing wordlessly. Snape was bearing down upon him, reaching inside his robes. Hermione's eyes widened at the spectacle.  
  
"R---r---riddikulus!" squeaked Neville, at last.  
  
There was a noise like a whip crack. Snape stumbled back, as if struck by a blow; he was suddenly wearing a long, lace-trimmed dress and a towering hat topped with a moth-eaten vulture, and he was swinging a huge, crimson handbag. Hermione's mouth formed a perfectly round 'O' in shock.  
  
The class roared in laughter; the boggart paused, confused, and Professor Lupin shouted, "Parvati! Forward!"  
  
The boggart immediately changed to become what she most feared, and after she cast the 'riddikulus' spell upon it, it became far less menacing and moved on to the next student, who cast the spell again, and on and on and on, until it had gotten to everyone in the room.  
  
At last it returned to Neville, having come full circle, and metamorphosed back into an evil-looking Professor Snape. This time, Neville charged at him, looking determined.  
  
"Riddikulus!" he shouted, and the class had another split second's view of Snape in his lacy dress before Neville let out a great 'Ha!" of laughter, and the boggart exploded, burst into a thousand tiny wisps of smoke, and was gone.  
  
"Excellent!" cried Professor Lupin as the class broke into applause. "Excellent, Neville. Well done, everyone.... Let me see... five points to Gryffindor for every person to tackle the boggart---ten for Neville because he did it twice... and five each to Hermione and Harry."  
  
"But I didn't do anything," Harry said.  
  
"You and Hermione answered my questions correctly at the start of the class, Harry," Lupin said lightly. "Very well, everyone, an excellent lesson. Homework, kindly read the chapter on boggarts and summarize it for me... to be handed in on Monday. That will be all."  
  
Hermione thought the assignment was far too lacking in difficulty for someone of her mental caliber, so she decided that she would write a research paper on boggarts during her own time later in the library.  
  
On the way back to their classroom to get their bags, the students excitedly reiterated the previous lesson with one another.  
  
"That was the best Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson we've ever had, wasn't it?" Ron said excitedly. Harry nodded absently, having appeared to be deep in thought since they'd left the staffroom. Hermione had noticed this, but decided to leave it to Harry's best friend Ron to sort out later in their dorm, if, of course, he happened to discern his friend's mental anguish.  
  
"He seems like a very good teacher," she said approvingly of Lupin. Ron nodded his effusive agreement.  
  
"And the revolting things that boggart became, ugh! Did you see the..."  
  
Ron went on for a long time about the horrors of the severed hand, the rolling eyeball, and his own six-foot tall spider. Harry's interest became piqued by the subject, and soon he was joining in the conversation with Ron, his unease of several moments ago seemingly forgotten.  
  
But all Hermione could think about was Professor Snape in that long, lacy dress, and how on Earth she would be able to face him at eight o'clock on this critical night without laughing her head off. 


	21. Meeting Happiness

Beneath the Surface  
  
Chapter the Twentiethe: Meeting Happiness  
  
'Those brats, those despicable, snotty little brats…' Snape thought murderously as he strode through the darkened corridors of the school. 'And him! Hasn't he humiliated me enough in the past? Has he nothing better to do with his life than to come back here and torment his old 'friend' Snivellus further? Pathetic!'  
  
Memories of his years as a student within this very school and of the Marauders, his tormenters, sped indistinguishably through his mind. Remus Lupin was one of the boys in that band of scoundrels, and although he had been the kindest---if such a word could be used in connection with his name---towards Severus, he hated him just as much as he did the rest of them!   
  
Snape had no doubt that the little 'drag act' Lupin had pulled with his image in that boggart lesson earlier today had been done out of some juvenile sense of malice that he still harbored towards him.   
  
Oh, yes, he'd heard of the incident by now, several times over, in fact. The sordid story was sweeping the entire school! Every staff member, student, even ghost---EVERYONE---knew about it; Severus didn't know whether to lock himself up in his rooms for the rest of his life or to go straight down to Lupin's room and 'Avada Kedavra' his sorry arse!  
  
But those thoughts were pushed to a corner of his mind and his stomach muscles tightened up almost painfully when he realized where he was; the place where he had told Hermione to meet him earlier that day.   
  
The place was situated on the second highest floor of Hogwarts castle, a set of dusty and largely unused rooms which were barely occupied by people during the day, and not at all during the night. The ghosts preferred this level of the castle to haunt for its solitary feeling of antiquity and ancient nostalgia; for, in these halls were kept the immense portraits and tapestries of wizards and witches that had existed in an age too far back in time for those who were born during the modern era to understand.   
  
But Snape had always understood it, and cherished it as well. He spoke to no one here, and the place's ancient inhabitants tolerated him as if he himself were a wandering ghost. When the cold, often stifling atmosphere of the depths of his dungeons got to him, he could rise to this high and hallowed plateau to clear his mind and loosen up his body by breathing in the freshness of the air that circulated at this altitude.   
  
Situated just left of the direct center of the corridor was a small, nondescript wooden door, but the room that it led to was anything but simple. It was what people used to call a reading room; it possessed too few books in its cabinets to be deemed a library, and was designed so that only several people at a time could sit in the room comfortably.   
  
Decorated in a refined, Victorian manner, it consisted of four finely wrought, velvet-seated chairs, two of which had been placed in an intimate manner around a matching coffee table, the other two pushed back against the wall on either side of the room. A broad yet not imposing hearth filled most of the back wall, and various delicate objet d'arts had been set upon its marble mantle.   
  
The room exuded a refined, feminine aura, one which Snape found surprisingly comforting. In its entirety, it reminded him of his mother, who was now no longer with him in body but whose spirit often haunted his nightmares. He had loved his mother for her gentility, but at the same time despised her for her weakness. This room strongly brought back his memories of the former aspect of the woman; he had never gotten to know her very well, and he felt somehow closer to her when he was there.   
  
This was the room in which he planned to have his 'discussion' with Hermione (whatever that would consist of; it was very unlike him, but he hadn't the slightest idea what he would say to her). He didn't feel comfortable enough in any of the other rooms on that floor to hold such a serious meeting in, but he felt that bringing Hermione into a room that was so important to him would be misleading; he was planning to let her down, once and for all, in this relationship quest of hers. Or was he?  
  
'I don't know.' He sighed. 'I just don't know what to do here. I was the one who did it this time, not her. And I know now that I want her in my life… I just don't know how.'  
  
He sighed again, raking a hand roughly through his black hair and then rolled his eyes as it swung right back into his face. He had been pacing back and forth in front of the door to the reading room for quite some time now; he'd gotten there a half an hour earlier than their appointed meeting time so that he could sort through what he wanted to say to her.   
  
Needless to say, he had nothing.   
  
Aside from the shame and nervous tension he was still feeling from the episode that had occurred with his student earlier that day, the fact that she undoubtedly knew about the… 'boggart in drag' incident was very disconcerting to him. He dreaded what she would say to him about it. This meeting they had set up might turn out to be very odd indeed, if she were to bring up that subject.   
  
But then, he hadn't counted on the idiocy of Lupin when he'd made the appointment, had he? Damn it all, but the man was still making his life a living hell! He halted his pacing and leaned his back against the wall to the right of the reading room. He had to pull himself together. He had to breathe.   
  
But his breath was suddenly seized in his chest, and his posture stiffened uncomfortably as he sensed that he was not alone anymore. Though he was staring straight ahead and could not see her with his eyes, Severus sensed Hermione with every pore of his being as she timidly stepped closer and closer to him.   
  
'"Take the staircase to the right of the charms wing, and let it raise you to the fourth floor"…. Alright, I'm here. Now what on Earth does this say…?' Hermione's brow furrowed as she concentrated on reading the practically indecipherable directions that Snape had written to her on that scrap of parchment. '"Follow the corridor to your left and proceed down it until you reach the very end, then take the staircase you will find to your immediate right.'' Alright then, here we go…'  
  
Hermione did not have to lie to her friends when she'd explained that she had to leave their Common Room at 7:45 p.m. in order to meet with Snape; they had believed her when she'd told them it was for a detention.   
  
Only Ginny had been watching her askance as she slipped out of the Fat Lady's portrait hole. That girl was cleverer than the lot of them put together; Hermione didn't know whether it was due to her experiences with Tom Riddle or whether she had been the only member of the Weasley family to receive the gene for cunning.   
  
At the moment, however, Hermione was quite preoccupied with getting to her and Snape's assigned meeting place on time; she had made a couple of wrong turns in the beginning, and knew that being late would not make for a good starting point with him.   
  
She blushed at the memory of his face inches from hers, of his dark eyes fixated upon her lips. Despite her superior mental capabilities, Hermione was next to totally uneducated when it came to what her old health teacher liked to call 'relationships and dating'.   
  
They had explained to her all of the basics of a physical relationship, she knew what intercourse was and how it worked, as well as various other methods of sex. But she hadn't had any practical experience in this area of her expertise; and, until she met Professor Snape, hadn't the desire to explore it.   
  
The feelings she had when she was with him, the thoughts that ran through her mind about what she wanted to do to him, what she wanted him to do to her, were alarming and alien. She felt ashamed for wanting these things with a grown man, a professor, but that shameful feeling also excited her and enhanced her desire to be with Snape sexually.   
  
Not that she would know what to do with him once she got him, if she ever got him. She was beginning to doubt that she ever would at this point; the man couldn't even bring himself to kiss her without falling into the depths of a shame spiral, how would he ever be able to go any further than that? If he even wanted to go further than that.   
  
Hermione didn't know much about the male species, but she did know that they were often fickle creatures whose emotions were dictated not by their minds, but by their… libidos.   
  
That could have been what had caused Snape to almost kiss her earlier that day. His mind must have been what had caused him to stop. Hermione sighed, and returned her attention to Snape's hastily written scrap of parchment.  
  
"Once you get to the top of the stairs, there will be a long hallway before you. Walk down it until you find the fifth door on your right; you will have to twist the knob three times to the left before entering the room. When you are inside, you will feel a loss of gravity for approximately three seconds; when your senses return to their normal states, exit the door. Walk out into the hallway you will see before you, and look around. You will see me waiting there."   
  
'…What on Earth is he on about? 'Loss of gravity'? That sounds right dangerous!' she sighed. 'But if this is what it takes to see him, I'll do it.'  
  
With faltering steps, she walked down the corridor and stopped at the fifth door on the right. With a shaky hand, she twisted the knob three times to her left. She took a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut, threw open the door and then threw herself into the room. Or lack thereof.   
  
The feeling she experienced, this 'loss of gravity', was akin to flying down the highest hump of a roller coaster track; she had never been fond of that feeling, and had only ridden on a roller coaster exactly two times in her life (the second time, despite the promises of her then best friend, had not been any better than the first).   
  
Thankfully, the uncomfortable feeling lasted only several seconds, as Snape had said it would. She allowed herself a few moments for her senses to reorient themselves, and found herself to be in a simple, dusty room, not unlike a broom closet. It was, literally, completely empty, but a lumos charm had been placed upon it so that she was able to see inside the room; she smiled to herself, knowing that Snape had cast it for her. He could be thoughtful when it really counted, she supposed.   
  
With that thought in mind, she took another deep breath and opened the door. A dusty hallway unrolled itself before her eyes, its floor covered by a faded carpet which had originally been a vivid crimson shade. What had once been bright, emerald green vines threaded their winding way up the carpet.   
  
It was too dark for her to be able to see every detail of the corridor clearly, but she could make out dim outlines of immense portraits and long tapestries lining the aged stone walls. Wrought iron sconces had been fixed into the walls all the way down the corridor, but only two of them were lit, and between those two she could see outlined the grim figure of Severus Snape.   
  
Her heart skipped a beat---an almost painful, wrenching feeling---and she moved forward to approach him.  
  
'Here goes nothing, Hermione.'  
  
"G-good evening, sir," Hermione addressed him timidly. "I came as you request---"  
  
"You're late," he told her briskly, his eyes fixed on the wall straight in front of him.   
  
He made her feel so small, so insubstantial when he deliberately looked away from her like that.   
  
She glanced down at her watch; the time read 8:03p.m. Her first instinct was to deride him for his obstinacy, but she pursed her lips tightly, willing herself not to say anything stupid and risk ruining this meeting before it even began.   
  
"I'm sorry, sir," she said in clipped tones. "But it's only three past the hour. Surely you can overlook it, given the complexity of your directions."   
  
Well, so much for being the perfectly polite student. Snape finally swiveled his head in her direction, sneering down at her.   
  
At least now she could see his face, however unpleasant the expression he wore upon it was.  
  
"My instructions were perfect; the fact that you had difficulty finding your way was most likely due to your own lacking sense of direction," he spat at her.   
  
She scowled up at him, knowing that it was near to impossible to top an insult of his. They engaged in a staring contest for several seconds before Snape sighed and turned away.   
  
"This is ridiculous," he said tiredly, then opened the door to the reading room. "After you, Miss Granger."  
  
She looked up at him questioningly, wondering why they couldn't just as well talk right there in the hallway.   
  
"This is a room I often go to when I'm in need of… solace from the outside world," he explained to her tentatively, not wishing to give away too much. "I am the only person who comes here, so I thought it the best location for our little chat. We will not be interrupted here, and this particular discussion requires the utmost secrecy, in my opinion."  
  
Hermione had to agree with him there, and nodded thoughtfully as she entered the room, which turned out to be breathtakingly beautiful. Her mouth dropped open as she took in her surroundings, eyes darting from one fixture to the next, and Snape's lips curved in an indulgent smile as he watched her.   
  
It wasn't until Hermione heard Snape shut the door behind them with a click that she realized they would be completely alone together, and if Snape's intentions were… improper, then there probably wouldn't be a way out of here.   
  
She'd thought she wanted him to be 'improper' with her, but now that such was actually possible, she wasn't so sure. Her nervousness was very apparent to Snape as she crossed her arms over her chest protectively and surveyed the room with apprehension. He rolled his eyes.   
  
"Oh, sit down, girl, if I'd only wanted to have my way with you, I wouldn't have gone through all this trouble, now, would I have?" His dry quip was met with large, perplexed eyes. He sighed.  
  
"Never mind," he muttered. Perhaps such vulgar witticisms were beyond the comprehension of someone of her age. He shouldn't have said such a thing to her anyhow, he thought ruefully.  
  
He glided past her and primly sat down in one of the chairs around the coffee table, motioning for her to take a seat in the chair opposite him. She did so, albeit nervously, perching on the very edge of the seat.   
  
"Now," he began, steepling his long fingers in his lap, as if this were a potions lesson and not a discussion about an illicit romance between a teacher and a student. "About what happened this afternoon. Again, I…" One of his hands had unconsciously risen from his lap, the palm open, as if he were shielding himself from his own shame. "I'm terribly sorry, it should not have happened." Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but he pointedly continued speaking.   
  
"It should not have happened," he said, enunciating each word sharply to convince her of his conviction. His words hit her like hail against a windowpane, and her face fell, tears brimming in her eyes.   
  
"Oh, don't start to cry, please," he fairly begged her, his tone weakening, and a hand fluttered upwards to support his head, which was beginning to feel quite heavy on his neck. He couldn't take her tears right now, and looked away from her, feeling quite guilty that he had gotten her into this predicament.   
  
"I am very sorry for what I did; I led you to believe that something was going to happen that simply cannot. It is my own fault, and I take full responsibility."  
  
"Why did you do it?" she asked suddenly, her eyes searching his face eagerly for the answer. He gazed sidelong at her for a moment before averting his eyes from hers once again, and sighed wearily.  
  
"I did it because… because I wanted to," he answered simply.   
  
Hermione fell back against the chair, her spine's rigid position having given out at those words that meant so much more than what he thought he was telling her.   
  
"You don't understand what it's like to be hunted---yes, hunted---" He glared at her, having heard her gasp of protest to his choice of wording. "By a young girl who…" He looked away again, and his voice grew softer as he continued. "Who happens to be not only unusually intelligent and extraordinarily determined, but… rather appealing as well. A man doesn't stand much of a chance against someone like you." He glanced over to her and saw that Hermione was staring at him dubiously.  
  
"It's true; I'm… drawn to you. I don't know why," he felt the need to insist, putting up a hand, "But I've found that I am strangely at ease when in your company, and the bizarre way in which you conduct yourself along with your odd mannerisms fascinates me almost to an… unhealthy level. Somewhere along the way, I suppose I developed an… attraction to you."  
  
He felt very vulnerable, as if his emotions were completely exposed for her viewing and dissection. However, his words were met with silence, and he looked over to Hermione to see how she was taking what he'd said. Her eyes were as wide as saucers and her mouth had dropped open.   
  
'I can't believe I'm attracted to this child,' he thought dryly, a shudder of disgust rippling up his spine. He noticed that when she leaned back in the chair, her feet didn't even touch the floor.   
  
"Well, girl, what do you have to say about all this? Aren't you shocked, appalled, disgusted?" he asked her sharply, expecting an answer that mirrored his own thoughts. But, as she often did, Hermione surprised him.   
  
"Er… thank you?" she replied unsurely. He scoffed incredulously, and she blushed. "I mean, I'm glad that you feel that way, because… I feel the same way about you."   
  
The words had rushed out of her mouth; she really did sound like a teenager on their first date, which, Snape assumed sadly, this probably was to her.   
  
He cleared his throat and sat up straighter in his chair. Now what were they supposed to do? He knew that it was his job, as the adult, to steer the direction of this conversation, but he was more at a loss than Hermione, though he did not know it. At the moment, she was beaming from ear to ear.   
  
"So, does this mean that we're… going out now?" she asked shyly, but was obviously very pleased with herself.   
  
Snape gawked at her for a moment, gripping the arms of his chair so tightly his already pale knuckles turned pure white. He knew that the children used that phrase to mean 'dating'. How had she come to that conclusion?!  
  
"No, we're not 'going out now'!" he shouted at her. The smile fell from her face as if it had been slapped off. "Just because we possess these feelings for each other---which are completely reprehensible, I might add---doesn't mean that we are able to act upon them! Don't you understand that?"  
  
"No, I don't," Hermione replied, her features pensive. "Well, I understand that you could get fired or go to jail---Azkaban, if anyone found out about this," she began. Snape threw up his hands, aghast that the utter ruination of his life seemed so simple to her.  
  
"Let me finish," she ordered, staring him down. His mind was reduced to such a senseless frenzy at the moment that he backed down, giving her the floor. A rather lascivious corner of his mind perked up at her forceful words; no one else would dare to speak to him that way.   
  
"As I was saying, I know that if we were to go public with this thing, you would go to jail and I would get expelled. So there is only one thing we can do here." She paused for effect, her eyes gleaming. Snape raised his eyebrows at her, expectantly awaiting this brilliant solution of hers.   
  
"We must keep it a secret."  
  
"…What?!" Snape burst out, rising from his chair. "Are you implying that we should actually try to make this immoral, abnormal and illegal thing work?!"  
  
Hermione blushed and bowed her head. "You don't have to say it like that, Professor, but… yes, I think we could make it work, if we didn't tell anyone about it."  
  
"Do you see how many things are wrong with your logic here? If you can call any of this madness logic!"   
  
Infuriated by his unwillingness to recognize the validity of her feelings for him, Hermione shot up from her seat, fists clenched tightly at her sides.   
  
"It's not madness to me! You don't understand what I go through over you!" she burst out, then sighed and looked down. Her memories of the inner struggle she'd dealt with over accepting and then dealing with her feelings for her professor were flying through her mind. "It's been awful, just awful, to feel this deeply for someone and then to have them reject you over and over again. You can't imagine how much I…" she trailed off, too afraid to say those particular words to him.   
  
Snape said nothing, quietly taking in her words. Perhaps her feelings were more substantial than the mere schoolgirl's crush he had originally thought them to be.   
  
…But this was far worse than that! How could he easily dismiss her now? He'd turned away his fair share of student admirers (he never could figure out quite what they saw in him), but this girl was far different than any of them. Not only was she someone he actually respected and even liked as a person, but her feelings towards him were genuine. What a predicament he had stumbled upon!  
  
He strode to the end of the room that was furthest from her, a part of him suddenly frightened of her after what she'd said, and folded his arms tightly across his chest. If he did not make a strong effort to keep himself together, he feared he would go insane. This girl was not helping him here at all, but had she ever? Damn her! Damn him! Damn THEM!  
  
'Deep breaths, Severus, deep breaths…'  
  
"Alright, let's deal with this calmly and rationally." He turned back to face her, noticeably more composed than he had been a moment ago. "If we were to take your suggestion, and cultivate this secret relationship, just what do you think we would be doing together?"  
  
She stared at him blankly, her brows furrowing in an attempt to comprehend his subtle meaning. He sighed and rolled his eyes in exasperation.  
  
"I'm not going to have sex with you, I'll tell you that right now," he stated frankly.  
  
Hermione drew in a ragged breath, choking on her shock at his words. Sex? She hadn't even thought of that! Well, she had, but not in actuality. Maybe her plan wasn't so brilliant after all…  
  
"We, er, don't have to do that," she said meekly. "We could… spend time together, have intimate talks…?" Snape put a hand over his face.  
  
"We do that now, Hermione," he sighed. Her eyes shot to his face in surprise at hearing her given name uttered from his lips. "Yes, well, it would be odd indeed if I didn't call you by your first name in circumstances like these! …As if they aren't odd enough…"   
  
"Then can I call you by your first name?" Hermione asked excitedly.   
  
"NO." He knew how unfair that would seem to her, and in a way, it was; but he simply could not deal with hearing his given name coming out of her lips at that moment in time. He cleared his throat, ignoring her small show of pouting.  
  
"Anyway, to continue on with my point. Since we already spend a significant amount of time together outside of school hours, and have these intimate discussions of yours, what difference would it make if we labeled ourselves a…" he shuddered, "couple?"  
  
"Well, we wouldn't do just those things," Hermione said, averting her eyes bashfully as she elaborated. "We could… you know, kiss and stuff." She looked up to find him gawking at her as if she had gone mad.   
  
"And do more than that," she went on. "Just not… all of that."  
  
"I take it by your incredibly vague insinuations that you wish for me to treat you the way that a boy your own age would." She shrugged, not knowing how to answer that. He drew closer to her, intent upon getting her to comprehend his point. "Don't you see, Hermione, that I am not a boy of your own age? That I, as an adult male, would require more out of a relationship than would a boy of your own age?"   
  
Hermione's brows knitted together. Snape sighed and counted to ten in his mind.   
  
"Alright, let me put it to you this way: men have sex with women---or other men, whatever the case may be. I am a man. Any person with whom I get into a relationship with, I am going to engage in sexual relations with." Hermione's cheeks had deeply flushed, and she was having great difficulty looking him in the eye, but Snape continued anyway, knowing that this was very important for her to understand.   
  
"You are a girl. A very young girl---"  
  
"I'm fourteen years o---"  
  
"Don't interrupt me," Snape rebuked her in a tone that brooked no argument. "You are a very young girl, and you do not yet know what men want from women, or how to give it to them. If you and I were to enter into a relationship together, this would prove to be a great problem. Neither of us would be satisfied, if you catch my drift."  
  
"I catch it, sir," Hermione said dejectedly.   
  
"Good."  
  
Several moments passed by with Snape pacing the room and Hermione sulking in her chair. After having gotten the chance to think things through, however, she rose out of her seat as if with purpose, causing Snape to still his movements and look at her expectantly.   
  
"Professor," she began. His eyebrows rose as if of their own accord. "I understand exactly what you're trying to say to me." Snape let out a relieved breath.  
  
"Good---"  
  
"However…" she said.  
  
"However?" he asked suspiciously.   
  
"However, I still think that this can work."   
  
Snape heaved an exasperated sigh and advanced upon her angrily. "After all that we've just gone over, how can you possibly still think that this could work? What are you THINKING, girl?!"  
  
"I like Hermione better," she told him petulantly, but quickly got to her point upon receiving one of his murderous glares. "What I'm asking for from you is basically the same as before---you know, just kissing and… stuff." He nodded impatiently, prompting her to go on.  
  
"…But I would allow you to go and see adult women when you need those… other things that I don't know how to give yet. And besides…" Here she looked away shyly, a small smile playing about her lips. "You could teach me how to do those other things too, after a while."   
  
Snape's jaw had dropped open at that last statement, and he was about to berate her sense of reason again, but then he paused for a moment and seriously thought about what she was saying; actually, it was more like a mental battle between he and himself.  
  
'I do like the girl, and what she's saying does sound fairly rational---oh, no, you don't! I am not that kind of a person anymore, I will not give in to this girl. …But it's not really giving in, is it? You know you want this too. You never got to have a normal relationship back in school, and this could be your chance to---now that's just perverted! I demand that you leave me alone and let me go on with my life. …Oh, yes, your lonely, dull life. Whatever you say… "Snivellus".'   
  
Snape shook his head, willing his inner monologue---or dialogue, more like---to shut up. This discussion had already gone on for almost two hours, and he couldn't fathom any end to it that would make both of them happy. Perhaps each should give in to the other's wishes, just a little bit. He said as much to Hermione.   
  
"…So, you and I will continue spending time and talking together, and I will… occasionally… hold your hand in private or something. Alright?" he fairly pled with her, willing this draining conversation to finally end. She didn't appear satisfied, but nodded her agreement anyway.   
  
'Oh, I'll get you to do more than that, Professor… Severus.' She smiled up at him. There would be plenty of time to achieve that.  
  
"I suppose we should be getting back to our rooms now then, right?" she asked.   
  
"Yes, I believe so. I, for one, have been utterly depleted of my energy."  
  
Hermione smiled again; she found his archaic way with words very amusing, as well as educational; quite a winning combination.   
  
Snape walked her to the door and opened it, then stood beside it as he waited for her to exit the room first. But on her way out, she halted abruptly and turned back to him with a mischievous grin on her face; he glared down at her suspiciously, wondering what madness she would spring on him now.   
  
"I know you're going to hate me for saying this, but I just have to tell you…" Her words were cut off by stifled giggles. He rolled his eyes.   
  
"Just spit it out," he told her in a resigned tone. She was laughing louder now, clutching her stomach, but she managed to speak in spite of her hysterics.  
  
"You look absolutely killer in a dress!"  
  
A blank expression froze on Snape's face; he had forgotten all about that incident, thanks to her, and now it was she who had reminded him of it. He should have known the girl would do something like this, contradictory creature that she was.   
  
But he found that he wasn't as mortified as he thought he'd be when confronted with the dreaded boggart incident; this discussion was far preferable to one which involved himself and his student in a romantic relationship.   
  
"Oh, get a hold of yourself, girl, that most certainly was not me," he said adamantly. "It was a boggart."  
  
"I know," she wheezed. "But it was the only way we'd ever get to see you in drag."   
  
Snape rolled his eyes, causing her to laugh even harder; unfortunately, her merriment was infectious, and it was becoming difficult for him to keep from grinning himself. He covered his mouth with his hand and waited while she calmed herself down.   
  
"Are you quite finished?" he asked her after a moment or two had passed.   
  
"Yes, I think so," she replied after releasing one last giggle, and then yawned. This meeting had thoroughly exhausted her, and she thought that she might even be able to get to sleep tonight, she was so tired. She looked up at him seriously. There was one more thing she just had to say to him regarding that boggart incident.  
  
"Truly, though," she started. "We both already know that I'm a bit nutters, but I found you strangely appealing in that outfit."  
  
Now it was Snape who let out a sudden guffaw, instantly putting his hand up to cover his mouth again. "Did you really?" he asked her through his fingers, genuinely amused.   
  
Hermione only looked down at the floor to conceal her blush from him. The admission had been a truthful one, indeed.   
  
Snape chuckled once more before heaving a long sigh and stretching slightly; his body was unused to the physical exertion caused by genuine laughter. Having grown very tired himself, he massaged the bridge of his nose with his fingers and looked down at Hermione.   
  
"I believe that a decent rest is long past due for the both of us," he said. Hermione nodded, reluctant to leave him but yearning for the comfort of her soft bed. She smiled up at him and started to walk away from the reading room.   
  
She had only taken several steps before it came to her attention that he had not yet left the room, and was standing just inside the doorway. "Aren't you coming?" she asked, turning back to face him.  
  
"No, I think I'll stay here for the night. I do that every once in a while," he explained.   
  
"I thought you said you were tired."  
  
"Oh, I am. I don't sleep." It was obvious that he did not wish to elaborate on this fact at the present time, so Hermione let it go.   
  
"Oh. I don't get to very often either," she said. He raised a surprised brow at her, but said nothing.   
  
"Well, good night then, Miss…" He sighed in mock-exasperation at the warning look she was shooting at him. "Hermione." She offered him a wide smile, and he returned it to her just the tiniest bit.  
  
"Good night, Severus," she replied. He glared at her, but again said nothing.   
  
They had agreed upon calling each other by their first names when they were in private (Severus, of course, only when he felt comfortable enough to do so). He began to close the door, but before it could click shut, Hermione stopped it by putting a hand between it and the doorframe.   
  
"Wait!" she exclaimed; there was something she desperately wanted them to do, and she would feel terrible later if she didn't at least ask him for it now.   
  
"Yes, what is it?" he asked her tiredly, but patiently. She waited several beats before getting up the nerve to put her request to him.  
  
"Can we… may I have a kiss good night?" she asked, wanting it too badly to be very shy. Though his face and body were obstructed by the door, she could feel him freeze up in indecision.   
  
"I'm sorry, Hermione," he said eventually. "I just can't do that yet…. Good night," he said again quietly, a tinge of regret suffusing his voice.   
  
Hermione just stood there, the sting of rejection affecting her entire body. She couldn't move, couldn't cry, couldn't even think. Through the haze of her thoughts, she realized that her hand was still keeping Snape's door from closing. She slowly made to remove it, but found that she could not.   
  
A wave of shock tingled through her body as her mind registered what had happened; Snape had placed his fingers over hers and was keeping her from leaving. His much larger hand covered hers completely, and she watched it in an almost disconnected manner as its long fingers slid down to her wrist and pulled it closer to him; the rest of her body moved with it, and she found herself suddenly pressed up against the door.   
  
She heard a soft sound which indicated a slight shifting of a body on the other side of the door, and Snape's face instantly appeared before hers. Before she could even process a single thought, she felt his warm lips pressed against her own. She let out a tiny alarmed gasp into his mouth, and he pulled back from her ever so slightly, waiting for her to compose herself.   
  
When she did, he joined their lips again, and remained perfectly still so she could become accustomed to the contact. He waited several seconds before beginning to carefully move his mouth over hers.  
  
Her wide open eyes fluttered closed as she gave in to this experience, and her lips began to move in a slow, unsure rhythm with his as he kissed her. It was a warm and enveloping sensation, and as she became more comfortable with it, intensely pleasurable.   
  
Who would have known that those same lips that were capable of uttering the harshest, most debasing invectives she'd ever heard could also be this soft and gentle?  
  
Though it did not last long, it felt to Hermione that they remained there for ages perfecting their first kiss.   
  
When she was feeling as if her heart was about to burst with pleasure, and that this was the greatest thing she'd ever experienced, Snape's lips stilled on hers, and grew firm. She was confused, but did not move from him, hoping he would continue.   
  
But he did not. He pressed his mouth tightly to hers for a last, quick yet powerful kiss and then a rush of cold air hit her lips as they were separated from his. She felt him give her wrist an affectionate squeeze before his hand slid off of her and slithered behind the door, his face going with it.   
  
It took the sharp click of the door fitting into the frame for her to realize that he would not come out again tonight. She stood outside of his door for a long time, hearing, seeing, and knowing nothing. Just feeling. She had never done that before, just felt with her heart, as if her mind did not exist within her.   
  
When she finally left his corridor, it felt as though her feet were not touching the ground as she walked back to her Common Room. She felt light and free, wondrously unencumbered by life. She wondered if this was the way the ghosts felt.  
  
She smiled to herself, a broad, secretive smile that reveled in its newfound freedom. She wouldn't mind keeping this secret to herself, not if she were able to feel in such a way.   
  
'I can't believe he gave me my first kiss. I suppose this is what being really happy feels like. …Amazing.' 


	22. Heartstrings in Twain, Resewn Again

Beneath the Surface  
  
Chapter the Twenty-firste: Heartstrings in Twain, Re-sewn Again  
  
"...Grind the thistlewig into a fine powder. After doing this, you must immediately add the essence of neurosalve to the mixture, or it will..." Snape was droning to his Third Year Potions class, almost more bored with what he was saying than they were.  
  
However, one person in the room was hanging onto his every word, but it was the speaker himself who was the object of her fascination, and not the instructions that he was giving. Though she did not fail to faithfully take down every word he uttered, Hermione Granger was at the same time worshipfully staring up at her Professor from where she was sitting, three rows back and just left of the center of the classroom.  
  
Staring at his lips, more accurately. To be perfectly precise, she was completely fixated upon them.  
  
Try as she might (though, in truth, she hadn't tried very hard), Hermione hadn't been able to think about anything else since he had kissed her the night before. The memory of his kiss had left her lips tingling with her every breath, and waves of pleasure had been running up and down her spine every time she thought about it.  
  
Her heart had been thudding heavily in her chest since she'd stepped foot in his classroom that day, its tempo increasing every time his eyes happened to wander her way.  
  
Last night, she had lain in her bed for a long time before exhaustion had finally forced her body to succumb to its much needed slumber. Though the kiss had been a very fulfilling experience in many ways, she'd wanted, craved, for more, and such was impossible after she had left him. She knew that if she had dared to venture back to the reading room that night, he would not be pleased to see her, however much she knew he had enjoyed kissing her.  
  
Severus Snape was odd that way.  
  
Hermione knew that she was currently too young for him where legality was concerned but, in her naïveté, she couldn't understand why an allowance couldn't be made for true love. Or at least sincere feelings. Deep affection?  
  
Hermione's mind was still far too fuzzy to possibly come to a coherent resolution on the issue, so she allowed the logical part of her mind to be pushed aside in favor of more pleasurable thoughts.  
  
Back to Snape's lips. A wistful sigh escaped her own.  
  
'If she doesn't stop gawking at me like that, I'm going to go insane.'  
  
Snape was trying his best to go on with his lecture in a calm tone and with a dispassionate demeanor, but it was all he could do not to just dismiss the class, grab Miss Granger, and.... And what?  
  
'I can't kiss her again. Not yet, anyway... Oh, why does this whole thing have to be so damnably difficult?! We're just two people.... But I know it's not that simple. I'm the adult here, and I must behave accordingly. Oh, but I HATE having to be the adult...'  
  
Snape was standing beside the blackboard, underlining the instructions he'd written upon it with a pointer stick as he read them aloud. After a half an hour or so of painstakingly reiterating the direction's to today's potion, (the creating of a potion could be fatal if made incorrectly, and he'd been blessed with a multitude of dunderheads in each class to supervise; he was lucky no one under his charge had died yet, or so he kept telling himself) he placed the pointer beside the board and fixed the class with a stony glare.  
  
"Very well, you may begin; but if one of you makes even the tiniest mistake, thirty points will be subtracted from your House." The students groaned collectively, but after Snape shot them a warning look, they silenced immediately. "It would serve you right after all the time I've wasted in practically spelling your tasks out for you. Third Years, indeed. ...Well? Get to work!"  
  
The class in its entirety leapt to obey him, and the previously silent room erupted with the sounds of the stirring of simmering cauldrons, the clinking of various metal implements and glass vials, and the occasional hushed murmuring of the students.  
  
Snape had slid into his seat behind his desk and was making a valiant attempt at creating the syllabi for next month's classes, but he found he could not concentrate on the task. The girl was still watching him from the corners of her eyes as she worked, he could feel it as if she were physically running her fingertips up and down his body.  
  
He was very thankful that the desk concealed the greater portion of his body, for her wandering eyes raking over what little of him she could see served to make him acutely uncomfortable. If he didn't know better, he would think that she was mentally undressing him with her eyes. But that would be too mature of an action for one so young.  
  
He made a show of adjusting his position and putting a hand to his forehead, shielding his face from her view, but he could still feel her scrutinizing him despite his silent efforts to make her avert her eyes.  
  
When the pressure of her intense gaze crossed the thin line of his patience, he snapped his head up in her direction and stared unmercifully into her eyes. Just as he'd thought (known, more like), the girl's eyes were positively glued to him; her expression was like that of 'a deer caught in the headlights' (a Muggle expression he knew the meaning of but not the derivation) when she met his eyes.  
  
He raised a stark, warning eyebrow at her and she bowed her head, flushing in embarrassment. Snape returned his attention to his papers as well, an amused smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. Really, it was as if he were this girl's first boyfriend, what with the silly way she was behaving towards him. He frowned suddenly.  
  
'I should not have kissed her. How could I have been so stupid? There can be no turning back now...'  
  
The faintly purple-tinged rings under his eyes were evidence that Snape had not slept at all last night; but how could he have? He had been far too busy striving to ignore the natural sensations that kissing the girl had wrought within his body to be able to relax and go to sleep.  
  
He had practically cemented his hands to either side of the sofa on which he'd lain awake so that they could not wander towards the part of him that needed to be tended to the most; that part of his body that had never once before been stirred by the child. He had done his best to will away images of the girl's sweet, upturned face and wide, innocent eyes, and then of the way she had so willingly given in to him as he had plundered her mouth with his own, but they had come to him anyway, sneaking up on his tired mind in lightning-quick flashes.  
  
The entire night had been pure torture.  
  
The fearful knowledge that, had he still been Severus the Death Eater, Snape would have thought nothing of charming the young girl into his arms and then throwing her away like yesterday's newspaper, was what had kept him from going any further with her that night. The knowledge that a secret, hidden part of him still wanted to rip her innocence to pieces was harrowing, and so were his body's new and unbidden responses to her. He would do almost anything to stop himself from going back to who he was, to that dark and desolate place in his heart, and he often did.  
  
But he was a changed man now; or, he was starting to rediscover the person he had once been. He was the resurrection of a boy who possessed a sense of deep sensitivity and honor, who was quiet and thoughtful---just plain Severus L. Snape.  
  
This man did not lust after the girl's purity, but truly admired her for possessing it; he did not crave the stimulus that the use of her body could offer his, but was proud of the fierce intelligence which lay behind her eyes that was so like his own.  
  
Hermione Granger was very important to him, and Severus would not give her up just because the Death Eater in him was threatening---begging---to take her over, and was even willing to bring his own self down in the process. He would not allow that to happen, and it was as simple as that.  
  
As simple as the compassion that he always saw in her eyes when she looked into his. As clear as the truth of emotion that shined brightly from within them.  
  
No, he could not, would not, let her go; to do so would be to lose a part of him that he was beginning to cherish, and he could not remember the last time he had loved something about himself. Possibly, he never had.  
  
He really needed to speak to her again. It wasn't too soon.  
  
"Miss Granger," Snape barked suddenly, causing Hermione to start rather violently. "This is Potions, not Divination; you are not here to stare into space and daydream, you are here to work. See me after class."  
  
Hermione stared back at him in confusion before understanding dawned in her eyes, and she nodded mutely. A brief smile touched the corners of her mouth, and she lowered her head once again to focus on brewing her potion. Snape forced his features to remain stolid, and returned to his work as well.  
  
Her two best friends had been watching this brief exchange between her and their Professor, and were more than a little confused about it. They couldn't fathom why she didn't seem at all angry about having been publicly reprimanded by Snape, and then made to see him after class ended. Normally, she would have appeared defiant, or at the very least, peeved. Why was she acting so docile now? Ron leaned towards her furtively.  
  
"Hey, 'Mione," he whispered, causing her to jump slightly and look back at him as if he were a ghost (specifically, the Bloody Baron); it seemed as though her mind had been occupied far elsewhere. He and Harry exchanged dubious looks, Ron then furrowing his brows at her.  
  
"Aren't you angry? The bastard's probably going to give you detention! And for what?! No—"  
  
"Ron, don't call him that!" she hissed back angrily, surprising even herself with her fervid outburst. After an awkward pause, she smiled at her friend apologetically, her cheeks flushing. "I'm actually glad he did it; I really wasn't paying attention, and in a moment my potion would have exploded. I'd hate to be like Ne---well, you know."  
  
She jerked her head towards Neville Longbottom, whose cauldron was situated behind hers and to the left. Ron nodded knowingly and offered her a grin before turning back to his own cauldron; he still thought she was acting oddly, but didn't wish to press her further on the issue at the moment. Not with Professor Snape eyeing him so very suspiciously, anyway.  
  
The rest of the class passed by quickly for all but Hermione and Snape, who were eagerly awaiting and dreading their after-class meeting, respectively. When the clock above the teacher's entrance to Snape's right signaled the hour, he rose in preparation to dismiss his students, however reluctant he was to do so (it was the first time in his memory of being a teacher that he'd ever wished for the class to go on for longer than it's appointed time; life seemed overly filled with twisted ironies lately).  
  
"Time's up. If any of you haven't finished by now, you will freeze your potions and complete them during our next class. Now, get out of here, you're all dismissed," Snape snapped at his students, who rushed to comply with his command.  
  
All but Hermione, of course. She had finished her potion fifteen minutes before class had ended, and had spent that time carefully cleaning up her work area and putting away her surplus ingredients and tools, all the while surreptitiously watching her Professor. Time had crawled for her while she waited for the class to finally end so that she could be alone with him.  
  
She now stood calmly beside her desk, waiting for her peers to leave before approaching Snape. Though she appeared completely composed, as always, her nerves were fairly alight with excitement, and it was all she could do to keep from hopping up and down on the balls of her feet.  
  
As Harry and Ron left the room, they favored their friend with looks of deep sympathy, but she only smiled at them in return, as if to say 'don't worry, I'll be alright'.  
  
She'd be more than alright, once they finally got out of there!  
  
Snape gulped down a ragged breath, imagining that it was his fear he was swallowing down rather than his saliva. He watched helplessly as his classroom emptied completely of people, save for himself and Miss Granger. And the gleam in her eyes as she looked at him was positively feral.  
  
'Gods, if any of you still look upon me with favor, save me from the perverse clutches of this child NOW!'  
  
"Hello again, Professor," Hermione greeted him softly, the timbre of her voice caught between that of a child's and that of a woman's. It frightened him and aroused him at the same time; an almost intolerable combination of emotions, like a hastily made potion gone awry. So much for the favor of the gods.  
  
"Hello, Miss Granger," he replied, his voice terse and his eyes hooded. He dared not to steal a glance at her as she continued to speak in that new, strange tone.  
  
"I...You...You're the only thing I could think about since..." She could force herself to speak no longer and, with a rapturous glimmer illuminating her dark eyes, she began to rush towards him, her thin arms eagerly outstretched.  
  
He shot up a firm hand, stopping her dead in her tracks about a foot or so before she reached him.  
  
"No, Miss Granger, please," he implored her with all the dignity he could muster. "Stay where you are."  
  
Hermione's arms lowered slowly back to her sides, her bones deflating along with her enthusiasm, and she looked up at him with large, confused brown eyes. She couldn't understand why he was pushing her away now when it had been he who had initiated their kiss the night before.  
  
"I don't understand, Severus---"  
  
"Don't call me that," he interrupted her, his voice shaking with emotion. He turned away from her and faced the wall, for he could not bring himself to face her. She made him feel like he was an adolescent boy once again, not equipped with the experience necessary to deal with the conflicting thoughts that were bombarding his mind. He didn't like this feeling at all.  
  
'Get a hold of yourself, Severus, she's just a child!'  
  
Glancing at her from the corners of his eyes, he saw that she was staring at her shoes, her fingers twisting into the folds of her robes, illustrating her nervousness.  
  
Snape sighed and walked over to her, one of his hands moving as if of its own volition to cup her chin and gently raise her face to meet his. She appeared shaken, and her slightly oversized eyes were gleaming with tears that had frozen in her surprise at his sudden movements. Snape stroked the curve of her jaw with his thumb; such a gentle touch from hands that were capable of such violence.  
  
"I didn't mean to hurt you," he said, his deep voice fraught with meaning.  
  
Believing that he meant to kiss her again, a jolt of excitement raced through her small body and Hermione rose herself on her tiptoes and tilted her head back. Her eyelids fluttered closed and her lips relaxed, parting slightly. She knew what to do this time.  
  
Snape's heart skipped a beat at the way she was offering herself so willingly to him, the inner sadist within him thrilling at the chance to engage in acts of debauchery. But Severus swiftly regained his composure before the images could consume him, and pulled back from his student both physically and mentally.  
  
Hermione felt a cold breeze wrap itself around her body as Snape swiftly withdrew from her, and she shivered from the sudden physical loss of him. She watched his elegant, black-clad form as he fairly glided towards his desk, the folds of his cape gently undulating as he walked. He stood with his head bowed and his white, spidery fingers bracing his body against the desk for what seemed a very long period of time.  
  
The thick, bleak silence of the room was broken by a long, hopeless sigh being expelled from the depths of Hermione's gut. Once again, the cold hand of reality had struck her.  
  
"So, is this over before it even began?"  
  
Her voice caused Snape to start slightly; it had completely reverted to that of a small child's, yet---possibly because of this---it cut through to the very core of his soul. He winced as if in pain at her words, his features contorting for the briefest of seconds before relaxing back into a pensive expression.  
  
He may not fully understand his feelings for this girl yet, but if there was one feeling Severus Snape did understand and was all too familiar with, it was anger, and at this moment, he was experiencing it in full-force. His body practically shook with it, reacquainting itself with this old, ferocious friend. The desire he'd cultivated, and later strove to quell, throughout his life to rebel against whoever was in charge of him rose in his throat now like liquid hot bile.  
  
'To Hades with their rules and regulations, with the iron fences they have the self-righteous gall to erect over other people's minds! I've had to give up far too much of myself when I came back here... I'm not going to give up her.'  
  
Snape abruptly turned to face the dejected Hermione, his jaw set determinably. Upon taking in her form and emotional state, he willed himself to calm down and his body, along with his mind, steadily stilled as he focused upon his student.  
  
Slowly, Hermione raised her eyes to meet her professor's, sure that she would read rejection in them. Her breath caught sharply in her throat when she found the last thing she ever expected to see in his fathomless black eyes, something she'd never seen within them before: hope.  
  
Snape smiled lightly at her, reading her slightest movement like a book. He knew what she saw, and how it made her feel, and that knowledge alone gave him great joy. He felt physically lighter.  
  
"I don't want it to be over," he whispered, his voice barely audible. But Hermione heard him, and that painfully wide, ecstatic grin that he was beginning to crave came over her face.  
  
"Oh, thank you, Professor, thank you."  
  
Snape smiled coyly at her, stretching out a graceful hand with which to tenderly engulf one of hers.  
  
"Please, call me Severus." 


	23. Unexpected Information and Shocking Reve...

Beneath the Surface  
  
Chapter the Twenty-Seconde: Unexpected Information and Shocking Revelations  
  
"They won't even speak to me, Severus!" Hermione exclaimed, throwing up her hands to illustrate her anguish.  
  
They had just arrived outside of Severus' secret reading room (since they had accepted their feelings for each other, they had begun to meet there instead of in his classroom so as not to arouse suspicion), and he was in the process of unlocking the door with a large, iron key. As his back was to the ranting child, he was free to snicker at her melodramatics under his breath.  
  
The two illicit companions had met up at the large marble bust of a long- deceased headmaster, and then continued to their destination together from there (they had agreed to take alternate routes to the bust; again, so as not to arouse suspicion by their traveling together at night.  
  
Though she had at first despised having to apparate through the 'roller coaster room', as she called the small, bare room to the utter mystification of pure-blooded Severus, Hermione now took great pleasure in being able to hold onto her professor's arm when the queasiness caused by this mode of transportation came over her).  
  
The girl had been griping about her recently querulous relationship with her two best friends, Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, since she and Severus had convened at the bust. Snape had listened to only parts of her tirade (as always, the girl had a tendency to ramble, and he hadn't the patience to pay attention to all of her chatter), but had found out that Weasley was angry with her because her feline familiar had supposedly eaten his rat, and Potter, the petty prat, was angry with her because she had (rightfully, in his opinion) gotten a high-quality broom that he had been anonymously given confiscated.  
  
Snape had succeeded in unlocking the old door, and held it open for her to enter the room before him. After several seconds had passed with no motion from her, he turned around and found the girl petulantly staring up at him with her arms crossed over her chest.  
  
"Well?" she asked in exasperation. He raised a confused eyebrow at her; he hadn't caught the last thing she'd said. She rolled her eyes and heaved an impatient sigh. "What should I do?!"  
  
"About what?" Severus' tone matched his perplexed expression.  
  
Hermione's own features tightened in irritation; she knew that his attention often wavered when she went on about something, and though she understood that he did not do it deliberately to hurt her, her feelings were slightly wounded all the same.  
  
"About Harry and Ron!" she said through gritted teeth, willing herself to be patient.  
  
She was coming to learn that Severus could be surprisingly childish when she got angry with him, whether her ire was justified (which it often was) or not. When she called him on his callous and sometimes overtly cruel ways, he would become icy cold towards her, or worse, refuse to speak to her until she apologized to him---and even then he might remain distant for a time.  
  
Snape's eyes rolled heavenward, his lip curling as if in disgust at the mention of the two boys' names. Even though she was disappointed in them, Hermione still cared for her friends; but she couldn't ignore the butterflies that flittered to and fro in her stomach when Severus sneered. Strange girl that she was, it affected her the way that a sweet smile would an average person.  
  
"Forget about those dunderheads and just get in the room, Hermione," he said irritably, at the same time ushering her almost roughly into the small chamber.  
  
"They are not worth thinking about."  
  
"But they're my friends," Hermione insisted in a small voice once she was inside the room. Snape had entered as well and pulled the door closed behind him, leaning his back against it. His black eyes pierced into her chocolate ones as if he could see right through them and into her mind. After a moment, he sighed wearily.  
  
"Honestly, I don't know how a person as intelligent as yourself could stoop to befriending such ignorant dullards as they," Snape stated, sneering again distastefully. Hermione's cheeks flushed at his accidental compliment of her. "But if they're so important to you, then..." he flicked a hand dismissively, "I don't know, go and tell them you're sorry."  
  
"But they're the ones who were wrong!" Hermione maintained fiercely, her faith in her innocence in the matter unwavering.  
  
"I thought you wanted to be friendly with them again," Snape reminded her, cutting swiftly across the room to sink into a wing chair. He leaned an elbow upon the velvet-encased arm so as to massage his temple with his fingers; this conversation was becoming very tiresome to him.  
  
"I do want to be friends with them again, but I'm not going to compromise myself and LIE to do it!" Hermione pressed. Snape rolled his eyes, her insistent moralizing seeming pointless to him and rather aggravating as well.  
  
"I don't understand you at all," he declared. Hermione huffed indignantly.  
  
"Well, maybe if you'd ever had friends yourself, you'd better understand my predicament!"  
  
Snape glared at her evilly, and she bit her tongue, instantly regretting her words.  
  
"I had friends, they just weren't Gryffindors," he muttered petulantly.  
  
Unlike Snape, Hermione's grudges were never made of stone, and she had to allow a giggle at his small jibe at her House's politics. The underlying point of his statement was that Gryffindors are hopelessly honorable and always strove to be good people, even if it meant entering into a war with one's own friends due to a difference of opinions. Slytherins are clever and cunning people by nature; they would swallow down their pride and say that they were in the wrong when they knew themselves to be right about an issue if it ultimately served their purposes. Hermione still couldn't decide which the better approach was, but she could definitely see the humor in either. Snape did not.  
  
"And just what is so funny, girl?" he asked her archly. Hermione smirked at him playfully, knowing by now that the sting he put into his words was not really meant for her.  
  
"Nothing, sir," she replied dryly, then turned away, suddenly slipping into a melancholy mood as she remembered the original topic of their conversation. "I just... wish they weren't being so hard on me. Harry and Ron, that is. Even though I know that I'm right about Scabbers and the Firebolt, I'm almost ready to take your suggestion and pretend that I'm wrong just so that I can have friends again."  
  
Her wistful expression and tone took Snape aback, and his irascibility of moments before was replaced by pity for his young friend. He could not empathize with the depth of closeness she shared with her friends, but he understood what it was like to be a child without them, and that appeared to be her plight at present. A surge of anger rose within him; because of the affects their childish grudges were having upon Hermione, he detested Potter and Weasley even more than he had before (which, even he knew, had already been a considerable amount).  
  
"You were right not to apologize," Snape said sharply, causing Hermione to turn puzzled eyes to him. "Forget about what I said before. I want you to be able to hold your head high when your honor is called into question. I don't want you to be like... to make any decisions that you will one day come to regret," he finished, his tone soft and distant.  
  
Hermione's brows came together, an effect of her deep contemplation on her dark professor; she knew that he'd had many miserable, possibly even horrendous, experiences in his life. She was clever and tactful enough to know that he would not appreciate her asking about them specifically; he would tell her these things when he was ready to, and she knew that he would be someday; if, of course, she managed to stay in his good graces that long, which she wholly intended to do.  
  
Severus Snape never did anything unless he wanted to, and to push him to do otherwise would probably result in the immediate termination of their tenuous relationship, something Hermione could hardly bear to think about. So she would wait patiently for him to open up to her.  
  
But in the meantime, it was obvious that whatever he was silently reminiscing about was not having a positive effect on his psyche; his eyes, sunken and haunted, were fixed unblinkingly on a small vase whose fairly simple design didn't demand such intense study. His thin, white hands were clutching the arms of the chair upon which he sat, as if he were unconsciously attempting to secure his body to the place in which it was situated while his mind wandered treacherously away from it.  
  
Hermione, not knowing any linguistical way to comfort him, plopped herself down on the floor next to his chair and laid her head on his right arm very carefully, for she did not know what he would make of the gesture. His body tensed, but he did not move.  
  
Encouraged, she placed one of her small, warm hands over one of his much larger, far colder ones. As it was already clenched to the chair as tightly as it could manage without causing him pain, his hand relaxed under her gentle grip of it. Hermione smiled to herself, closing her eyes so as to better savor their contact.  
  
"Don't worry, Severus," she murmured contentedly. "I'll never tell them I'm sorry." To the surprise of each of them, Snape chuckled under his breath.  
  
"Good girl," he praised her in a warm, low tone. Her smile widened.  
  
The warmth of her head and hand began to spread through his body from where they were touching him, and he sighed, his spine becoming loose, allowing him to sink tranquilly into his seat. What a comfort this girl was proving to be to him.  
  
He wished that this---this cozy, platonic togetherness---was all that she wanted from him. He wished that no heated need underlay her touches. He wished that the two of them could just sit like that forever.  
  
But Severus Snape had never really gotten what he'd wished for out of life, not at any time; Hermione chose that blissful moment to speak.  
  
"What do you know about Sirius Black?"  
  
It took Snape a moment to process just what she was saying, so deeply ensconced had his mind been in a haze of quiet contentment. She was asking him about that notorious scoundrel and now escaped convict, Black. Hearing that filthy name spoken in her sweet voice caused Snape's body to become completely rigid, and a deep scowl etched across his face, seemingly of its own accord and independent of his control.  
  
Hermione could easily sense his discomfiture upon hearing the criminal's name, and though she tensed up herself in reaction, she did not move from his side, nor did she remove her hand from his arm.  
  
"Sirius Black," Snape spat out the name as if it carried with it a bitter taste, "was, is, and always will be nothing more than a vicious, scheming blackguard."  
  
Though they were not directed toward her, and though Black did indeed deserve them, Hermione winced at the harsh words that spouted from Snape's mouth. She was surprised that he despised Black so; it would seem more in character for him to be largely indifferent towards the whole situation.  
  
She waited expectantly for him to say more, but his lips had thinned and looked to be sealed tight. Always thirsting for information, Hermione would not accept his silence.  
  
"Severus, you're giving me the impression that you know more about him than the other professors do," she prompted, watching him warily from the corners of her upturned eyes. He appeared vexed at her for pressing him, but reluctantly unclenched his jaw in preparation to elaborate further on the subject.  
  
"That's because I do," he bit out. "I was unfortunate enough to have attended this same school, and to have been in the same year, as the dastard. He made my life a living..." Snape's black eyes flicked to Hermione and back to the door across from him. She could almost see him sifting and weighing his thoughts behind his eyes before he spoke again.  
  
"He was a fiend then, and has not changed a bit to this day. That's all there is to know about him."  
  
Hermione's mouth opened reflexively, like a baby bird awaiting food from its mother, but she just as soon clamped it shut. She had already pushed Snape far enough; she could tell that by how tightly his fingers gripped the arms of his chair, by how a thin, solitary vein was pulsing just visibly on his temple.  
  
She resolved to somehow research this conjoined period of Snape and Black's life later on in the library.  
  
"Severus, do you mind if I study for a bit? I've got a big test tomorrow in Transfiguration that I want to get top marks on."  
  
That she did not question him further on the matter of Sirius Black and how he knew the man was uncharacteristic of her, but he opted not to call her on this unusual behavior out of his unwillingness to continue the conversation.  
  
Despite his insistence that she seat herself in one of the other chairs that occupied the room, Hermione staunchly chose to remain on the floor beside him while she poured over various textbooks and parchments. Knowing that it was a tiring---and ultimately fruitless---endeavor to try and force her to sit in a chair like a proper person, Snape allowed her to lean against his chair while he himself delved into a novel that he had plucked out of one of the glass-encased cabinets.  
  
After having occupied themselves in these respective ways for a lengthy period of time, neither Snape nor Hermione found it inappropriate that Snape's hand had wandered aimlessly to entwine its fingers in Hermione's abundant hair, and eventually to softly stroke the rough tresses in a gentle, unconscious rhythm. Each found the contact singularly soothing.  
  
And so they passed the evening and the greater part of the night, both of them fully concentrating on the texts that lay open on their laps. Only their bodies were aware of the physical contact that prevailed between them, and these visceral organisms saw no logical reason to alert their brains to it; for logic does not exist anywhere outside of the human mind.  
  
Just sitting beside each other and enjoying the touch, the feel, of the other person was the most natural interaction that had ever taken place between them.  
  
The very next night after classes, Hermione went straight to the school's library, preparing to stay there as long as she was allowed in her search for the keys to Snape and Black's mutual past: the Hogwarts school yearbooks from the years 1972 to 1978.  
  
She had never before come across them in any of her explorations of the library, so she came to the conclusion that they must be sequestered away in some special area in which she, as a student, must not be allowed. Therefore, she knew she would have to ask the one and only librarian, Madame Pince, for permission to view the books.  
  
The sour Madame Pince had, after having grown accustomed to seeing Hermione in her library at least once every day or so since she had first entered Hogwarts as a First Year (and more probably because Hermione revered and respected books as much as the woman who had made their upkeep her living), taken a liking to her.  
  
Hermione was very grateful that she had, for it only took a bright smile and a very polite request to get what she wanted from the dour old woman, despite her obvious perplexity as to the girl's interest in such old yearbooks.  
  
Within ten minutes, Hermione received the volumes that she'd asked for, and had carried them covetously to her favorite secluded desk in the far back of the vast library. It was there that she would spend the next several hours, happily paging through the books from cover to cover until she located the classes that held her interest in each one. Fortunately, Houses Slytherin and Gryffindor had been placed on pages opposite each other.  
  
After she'd located them in every yearbook, she spread out the books across her table in chronological order, so that year 1972 lay on the far left, and year 1978 on the far right. Once she'd finished this task, she stood back from the desk and quietly observed the class pictures.  
  
Since the charm for animating photographs hadn't been invented until late 1973, the photos in the first two yearbooks remained as still as their Muggle counterparts. The moving ones began in Snape and Black's Third Year at Hogwarts, the very same year in which Hermione was now.  
  
She skimmed the Gryffindor class pictures first, her eyes briefly taking in the form of Sirius Black as he grew from a charmingly cute boy into a rakishly attractive young man. As she had seen the decrepit way he appeared in his wanted poster, she was surprised that he had once been so attractive.  
  
She noticed that he had a gleam in his sharp green eyes which could have been either confidence or rebelliousness. But despite this ambiguous gleam, the lad seemed to be a friendly and outgoing person. In almost every animated photo, he had thrown his arms over the shoulders of the boys next to him and was silently laughing and talking with them gregariously.  
  
She instantly recognized Harry's parents, and smiled as she watched them mature from their First to Seventh years. In each class photo, the two moved closer together until they were standing next to one another and holding hands in the last. They really were a lovely pair of people, each of their faces exuding warmth and good humor. A wave of sadness engulfed her as she remembered that Harry would never get to know them; perhaps she would show him these pictures one day.  
  
It was with a sense of great excitement that she turned her attention to the Slytherin class on the left side of the open yearbooks. The difference between they and the Gryffindors was instantly apparent; unlike the latter House, the Slytherins, save for a small minority, made much more of an effort to pose for the camera, and more than half of them were not smiling.  
  
Severus Snape was at once recognizable; no matter where he was placed in each picture, he stood alone, the students surrounding him having allowed him a small circular space to himself. Hermione could not tell whether this was because they revered or reviled him, but she knew that even if his position in the pictures had not been so conspicuous, he would have stood apart from the entire class all the same.  
  
In his First Year as a Hogwarts student, Severus was noticeably smaller than his peers, both in body and in attitude; even though the picture did not move, the pain and isolation the boy exuded was palpable.  
  
A very thin and sickly looking child, his robes swam about his small body, and only his fingers, neck and head protruded from them. Though his head was bowed, his solemn little face was pointed directly at the camera, his desolate black eyes peeking through the longish, straggly tendrils of his jet hair, as if willing those that would later view the picture to see him most of all.  
  
The child version of Severus was heartbreaking to Hermione, and she stroked his hair in the picture tenderly. It was with some reluctance that she moved on to view him in his Second Year.  
  
Though placed on the opposite side of the student body than he had been in the previous photograph, his demeanor and pose was much the same as it had been in his First Year. The only difference was that his head was raised so that he faced the camera head-on, and a spark of defiance was beginning to cloud the vulnerability in his eyes.  
  
In the next picture, taken when he was in his Third Year, Hermione perceived a world of difference in Severus, and she did not believe it was all due to the fact that the picture was animated.  
  
He had begun to grow into his height, and his robes fit him much better, despite how thin he'd remained. His seeming helplessness in the prior two photos had been replaced by a firm regality; he was standing up straight and tall, taking advantage of his new height, and his slim arms were folded tightly across his developing chest.  
  
Noting this physical maturation, Hermione then took in the changes that had taken place in his body. His face had begun to take on the shape of an adult's, his cheekbones more prominent and the line of his jaw more defined. His shoulders had begun to broaden and his hands seemed overlarge, his fingers too long, for his growing frame, but though he was now among the tallest in his class, he was also still among the skinniest.  
  
He must have discovered the power and superiority that the raising of one eyebrow lent his serious face, for the boy was lifting his left brow tenuously, as if just becoming used to the expression.  
  
Still a bit unused to the magical phenomena of animated photographs, Hermione's eyes lit up with delight as she visually devoured young Severus' movements. Or lack thereof.  
  
The adolescent version of Snape stood so still and straight, one would have thought this a Muggle photo, but Hermione's observant and hungry eyes drank in every intake and exhalation of breath that caused his chest to softly rise and fall; every slight lifting and resettling of his position as he transferred his slight weight every so often from one foot to the other; even the occasional barely visible shifting of his eyes from one direction to another.  
  
Hermione reveled in his every movement; this was a moving picture of Severus Snape when he was the very same age, in the very same school, and in the very same Year as herself. If she had known a way to insinuate herself into that picture, she wouldn't have a single inhibition about running to Severus, grabbing the boy about the neck and planting a passionate kiss upon his lips. She sighed wistfully.  
  
Snape's photographed image in his Fourth, Fifth and Sixth years were very similar to that of his Third in the way of his position and expression. The pictures differed only in the ways of his continued physical development, and in the increasing harshness and strength he projected in each one.  
  
By his Seventh Year, Severus Snape appeared to be encased in his very own impenetrable, invisible shell. The sneer upon his face was a mirror image of the one he still wore to this day; his eyes, seemingly blacker than in the previous pictures, were stony and cold; and his posture was harsh and arrogant. The students around him had given him an even wider circle of space to himself, and he occupied it like a king on his throne.  
  
Snape's appearance in the photo was nearly identical to his current one, excepting the student robes, the length of his hair (which, in the photograph, was at least four inches longer than its present length), and his youthful face, which had not yet been etched by the shadows and lines of maturity and life experience.  
  
Hermione knew that this---his Seventh Year---was the year in which this boy had fully become the incarnation of Severus Snape that people knew him as today. Her eyes lingered sadly on the picture for a moment, but she did not dare touch it with her fingers as she had done with the others; Seventh Year Snape was too intimidating even in print.  
  
Hermione sighed tiredly and checked her watch: almost nine o'clock. She knew that Madame Pince would arrive to collect her at any moment if she did not report to the front desk in the library to return the yearbooks before leaving. The woman was suspicious even of notoriously rule-abiding Hermione Granger.  
  
Hermione closed each book slowly, cringing slightly as if she thought the action would hurt the people inside, despite her knowledge that they were only animated replicas of the living on paper. She left the yearbook of 1974 open the last, allowing herself a final, longing look at Third Year Snape before gently closing the book on him.  
  
The idea that hit her as she did so had the force of a current of lightning striking her brain. She remained standing, mouth agape, eyes wide, over the yearbooks for about half a minute as the thought sunk into her mind, easing slowly and becoming comfortable like a body into a warm bath.  
  
She couldn't do it; it was wrong, it was dangerous, it was illegal. And yet the very prospect was still so tempting. Could she really pull something like that off, leaving herself and others unscathed? She would never know unless she tried it, and Hermione Granger can not stand not to possess knowledge that she knew how to gain.  
  
But now the clock was striking nine times, marking the hour. It was time to go. She would think more on this amazing and terrible revelation later, and vowed to come to an irreversible decision. 


	24. When the Time Comes and Reason Leaves

A/N: If you're reading this, Persia, I kept my word, your name's finally in.  
  
Beneath the Surface  
  
Chapter the Twenty-Thirde: When the Time Comes and Reason Leaves  
  
Professor Snape was striding purposefully down one of Hogwarts' many corridors, on his way back to the dungeons from supper in the Great Hall. It was a Friday, and he didn't have a single class to teach until first thing Monday morning. Needless to say, he was more overjoyed than nearly any of his students were at the prospect of having the weekend to himself.  
  
He pushed through clusters of conversing and loitering students as if he didn't see them, and rewarded the righteous gasps of indignation and foul- mouthed mutterings with the taking of an overly large amount of points from the offender's House. He took very few from his own, of course (Slytherins, for the most part, just didn't loiter).  
  
"Professor Snape?" a small, feminine voice called up to him, halting his swift progression down the hall.  
  
He looked down; standing directly before him was a pretty, dark-haired, rather minutely sized Second Year Slytherin by the name of Persia Ferguson. He almost smiled as he addressed her, so pleased was he with himself that he'd managed to remember her name.  
  
"What is it, Miss Ferguson?" he drawled, not in an entirely unpleasant tone.  
  
The girl's eyes lit up, encouraged by his friendliness (for, compared to his normal behavior, Snape was being very polite to this child indeed). She held out a stack of parchments that had been held together by some twine tied round them, and offered them to Snape as if they were a sacred gift. Not knowing what they were, Snape raised a questioning eyebrow at the child, who hurried to explain their significance to him.  
  
"These are the First Year tests you had me grade for extra credit." She again politely pushed the parchments on him. Snape nodded curtly, recognizance flashing across his features in the form of lowered brows and a murmured 'ah'.  
  
"Yes, thank you, Miss Ferguson, I'll take them down now." He snatched the paper from the girl's awaiting hands, and then nodded to her before making to turn and continue on his way.  
  
It was just then that he noticed another girl standing behind Miss Ferguson, her figure made shadowy by the dimly candle-lit hall. Seeing that he had finally seen her, the other girl stepped forward, looking up at him dumbly.  
  
Snape knew her name this time; it was another of his Slytherins, Miss Pansy Parkinson. He briefly wondered how he hadn't recognized her before, as she was a youthful mirror image of her esteemed (meaning wealthy and powerful) mother. He knew the Parkinsons only socially, and that was more than enough for him; they were patronizing, pretentious people, and there was little he despised more than pretension in any form. He knew nothing of their daughter save for her marks in school (which were adequate), and he made a firm effort not to judge her based on his knowledge of her parents. He'd had to make the same effort for many of his other Slytherins. Sometimes a child would disappoint him, others would surprise him, but he didn't know this girl well enough to have come to a conclusion in either direction.  
  
"Was there something you wanted, Miss Parkinson?" Snape prompted the girl when she did not speak. He was slightly impatient at this point, because he really wanted to get down to his dungeons before his next class did (for some reason, putting Seventh Year Ravenclaws and Slytherins together was a formula for disaster). Parkinson gave her head a small shake, as if coming out of a trance, and lowered her eyes from his face dejectedly.  
  
"No, sir," she answered, her voice just above a whisper. Her eyes shifted rapidly in their sockets for a moment, as if she were searching her mind for a certain piece of information, before she continued. "I was just accompanying Miss Ferguson here; she was a bit shy to stop you on your way."  
  
The other girl shot her a dubious look, but did not refute her story. Snape, in too much of a hurry to get to the bottom of this girl's obvious fabrication, simply nodded curtly to both students and, after bidding them a hurried 'good day', turned and continued on his way to the dungeons. He did not hear Miss Ferguson bickering with Miss Parkinson about her little white lie, so quick was his pace.  
  
Halfway down the twisting staircase that led directly to his potions classroom, however, he stopped dead in his tracks and clutched the pack of parchments he'd been given to his chest, covering his suddenly racing heart.  
  
He was experiencing a severe chill, one that ran straight through the bone and into his very marrow. He didn't know what, and he didn't know how, but he knew that right at that moment, something irrevocable was going to happen to him, and there was nothing he could do about it.  
  
A memory that he wasn't sure even existed flashed behind his eyes and then vanished before he could grasp it. Three fellow Slytherins. Gryffindor robes. Bushy hair and dark brown eyes. All of his breath was expelled from his body as he put these vagaries together.  
  
He knew who it was, where she was, and what she was doing. Without a second's pause, Snape ran to the reading room.  
  
Meanwhile, Hermione Granger, who had secreted herself within Severus' reading room on Hogwarts second-to-highest floor, was madly scribbling down calculations on a previously empty journal that she had been given by her parents for her thirteenth birthday. It had taken her two scented and flower-embossed (her parents really didn't know her tastes at all) pages to complete, but she'd managed to figure out just how many times she would need to turn her Time Turner back so that she would find herself in the year 1974; Snape's Third Year at Hogwarts.  
  
Before she performed the action that would send her back in time, however, Hermione remained seated on the ground for a long while, just staring at the amazing little device she was holding in her hands.  
  
'I swear I'll only stay an hour; I just have to get a look at him, I HAVE to. But it's still so dangerous. Anything could happen, no matter what precautions I take. What I'm about to do is just completely wrong on so many levels...' Hermione sighed dolefully, but then fixed her eyes determinedly on the object in her hand. 'I just said 'what I'm about to do'... that means that I've definitely decided now. I'm going to do it. It's going to happen. I'm going to go back in time. Here I go, one, two, three.'  
  
Hermione shook every doubt out of her head, her single-minded resolve taking control. Her mind was blank as she turned the tiny hourglass within the golden circle of her necklace back the appropriate amount of times, and waited with baited breath and sealed eyelids for the now familiar sensation of all order that existed within the world to twist and reshape itself around her.  
  
It finally came, and she squeezed the Time Turner so tightly that its imprint would remain etched in her hand for at least an hour afterwards. Time itself was swirling about her, sped up to an obscenely fast motion as the events of the last twenty odd years replayed themselves around the small, oblivious girl who had ordered it to be done.  
  
The whirling finally stopped after what seemed to Hermione to be approximately twenty minutes (though there was no way she could be sure), and the time had settled in the year 1974. She slowly opened her eyes.  
  
Severus' sanctuary (as she had taken to calling it in her mind) appeared almost exactly the same as she knew it in her own time, minus several artistic artifacts and the generally newer condition of the room's furnishings. It seemed brighter, almost several shades lighter in color, though the light of day was not able to seep through its windowless walls.  
  
Hermione rose abruptly, remembering that she had only meant to stay in 1974 for but an hour. Perhaps the heinous crime she'd committed against time could be slightly alleviated by the promise she'd made not to remain within this era for too long. She checked her watch: the time read 7:34pm. She resolved to be back in this very room by 8:34, Time Turner at the ready.  
  
The second hand on her watched was ticking away unmercifully; time was already wasting. With shaky steps and trembling fingers, she made her way to the door, unlocked it and then swung it open as if something horrible could be awaiting her outside of it.  
  
But there was nothing. Just the empty hallway that she had come to know so well; it too seemed lighter in color and slightly newer in furnishing. She began to traverse it, slowly at first, and then more and more rapidly as the soft ticking of her watch boomed in her sensitive ears, setting a pace for her steps.  
  
The door that led to the empty room which was, in her time, a portkey to a similar room on Hogwarts' fifth floor, came swiftly into her view, and Hermione prayed that it served the same function in 1974 as it did in her time when she opened it and stepped inside.  
  
Thanking whatever deity was watching over her, Hermione did indeed end up in the little bare room on the fifth floor by way of apparation. Warily, she opened the door a crack and poked her head through it, surveying the length of the hallway on either side of her with her eyes. No one was in sight. She let loose a relieved breath and timidly stepped outside of the room, closing the door behind her as softly as she could.  
  
Walking quickly yet carefully, aware that she must not be seen by anyone in this time, she swiftly made her way through corridors and down staircases (making sure to keep to the walls and shadows; luckily, only several people passed her on her journey, and none of them detected that she was hiding behind this statue or that pillar) until she reached the vestibule which housed the Slytherin dormitories on the second floor.  
  
She had passed it by many a time, never daring to allow her eyes to linger upon any part of it for very long. Slytherins were notoriously very private people, and did not appreciate the prying eyes of their curious Gryffindor peers. Now that she was here, however, Hermione hadn't the slightest idea what to do next. Young Severus was nowhere to be seen, and she couldn't waste her precious time here crouching behind a large bust of Salazar Slytherin.  
  
Just as she was about to creep out from behind it, the tell-tale swishing of robes and tapping of footsteps on stone heralded the approaching of people. She immediately shoved her body back behind the bust, edging as close to the shadowed wall as was possible. Thankfully, she was able to see a great part of the corridor from her vantage point, without being seen herself. She made not a move and breathed as shallowly as she could while she watched.  
  
Two boys and a girl had stopped to stand together in the hallway at a safe distance from her, but Hermione could still make out their general descriptions. The girl was tall and willowy with fair skin, long, waving black hair and sparkling green eyes. These features made her very attractive, but the air of superiority that hung about her regal posture and aloof expression contributed to making her seem less so in Hermione's eyes. Still, there was something oddly familiar about this girl that Hermione, for the life of her, could not place.  
  
The boy to the raven-haired girl's left side (not familiar at all) was considerably shorter than her and a great deal stockier, but carried with him no less of an imposing presence. He had shortly cropped chestnut hair with matching, almond-shaped eyes that seemed to flash powerfully of their own free will.  
  
But it was the tall, slender boy walking between the two Slytherins that was the most eye-catching of all; Hermione had purposefully waited to regard him the last because she knew he would be the most beautiful of these three striking children. And he was.  
  
With icy-pale, flawless skin, shoulder-length white-blonde hair that appeared to be gossamer soft, and flinty grey eyes that managed to be both calculating and inviting at the same time, Hermione knew without a doubt who this gorgeous youth was.  
  
Though he looked very much like his own son, Draco, Lucius Malfoy possessed a cool and mysterious charm that he had not passed down to his foul-mouthed and uncouth progeny.  
  
'That's what makes him all the more evil,' Hermione thought with a scowl, countering her unabashed admiration of the boy Lucius with the knowledge of the monster he'd become as a man. 'It's the tactful, charming ones that are always really bad.'  
  
She decided to ignore how childish that sentence seemed and focused instead on listening to the three students, who were softly speaking with one another. Their voices were far-off and hard to hear, but Hermione was able to make out most of what they were saying.  
  
"...Then why can't we find him? It's like he's deliberately avoiding us!" the girl was saying in a slightly aggravated tone. "I thought you said that he was going to help us out."  
  
"Patience, Trixie," Lucius purred at her confidently, his voice a younger and slightly higher version of the one he'd used in the few times Hermione had heard him speak in her time. "He will."  
  
"And do you know this for certain? Did he specifically tell you that he would make it for us?" the girl, Trixie, cut in sharply. Lucius frowned pensively and lowered his head just slightly.  
  
"Not exactly... But you know he never gives anyone a straight answer!" he insisted at Trixie's exasperated scoff. The other boy only looked back and forth between the two of his friends as they spoke, seemingly satisfied not having to say a single word.  
  
"Which is why he can't be trusted! Honestly, Lucius..." Trixie obviously wasn't finished with her tirade, but she had trailed off when Lucius began to shush her soothingly, as one would a distraught child. Hermione's nose twitched in irritation as she watched Trixie give in to him.  
  
Lucius was now moving closer to the chagrined girl, pinning her against the stone pillar they were standing behind with his long arms. Hermione saw by his profile that he was staring into her eyes seductively, the corner of his mouth quirked into a confident smirk. Though the girl was making a stout attempt to stay angry with him, Hermione could see that her barriers were already beginning to crumble, for her lips smiled of their own accord as her posture relaxed considerably.  
  
Lucius began to gently stroke her cheek with his hand, and had leant in to whisper things into the girl's ear which were making her giggle. The short boy with them looked away but did not leave; Hermione assumed that he was a mute, permanent fixture in this odd relationship.  
  
After several murmured words between Lucius and Trixie, the three simultaneously went on their way down the corridor, doubtlessly to the Slytherin Common Room.  
  
Hermione sighed in relief, glad to be rid of them. She allowed her cramped body to uncoil itself from its guarded position just slightly; she neither saw nor heard anyone else around her. As she often did, Hermione idly raised her left arm to her eyes so as to check her watch. She strangled a startled gasp in her throat: twenty minutes had passed by! She hadn't much time left.  
  
'This school is enormous,' she mentally wailed. 'How am I EVER going to find him? Oh, I shouldn't have done this at all; it will probably be for nothing in the end!' A single tear trickled down Hermione's cheek, and a wave of remorse and guilt engulfed her. With resignation, she stood up and emerged from behind the bust, having made doubly sure that the coast was clear.  
  
She should have checked again; right at that very moment, a single pair of barely audible footsteps was making their way towards the corridor in which she was standing. Hermione froze, both bodily and mentally.  
  
She waited for whoever it was to say something to her, to ask what business a Gryffindor had down here before they found they didn't recognize her and asked who she was. The footsteps drew closer and closer until Hermione knew that the person was walking right beside her and... and they kept right on walking.  
  
They didn't pause, or even slow their step as they walked by. Utterly relieved and completely mystified at the same time, Hermione turned around to see who it was. Her jaw literally dropped open.  
  
It was him. Hermione knew him instantly---would know him anywhere---though his back was to her as he continued to stroll down the corridor adjacent to the one in which she was still standing. She need search this time no more, nor could she possibly go back now to her own.  
  
His robes billowed just slightly behind him as he walked (a dim likeness of those he wore as an adult Professor), his back completely straight and his head facing the path before him. Young, Third Year Severus Snape had been oblivious to Hermione's presence as he'd passed her by. Hermione knew nothing at that moment except that she had to go to him.  
  
"Severus!"  
  
She ran after him as if her very life depended upon reaching the boy, and without thinking, she clenched a fistful of his robes in her hand and tugged hard, stopping his progression at once. The shocked youth emitted a small cry and whipped around to face his perceived attacker.  
  
Seeing his face was like viewing his yearbook photo close-up, and Hermione stared up at the tall boy in awe. There were the long, unkempt black hair, the high cheekbones and the delicately defined jaw line; the aristocratic nose and the long, graceful neck. This was Hermione's Potions Professor as a boy of no more than fourteen years of age, and he was baffled by her very existence.  
  
He had not yet learned to guard the emotions within his jet black eyes, and they stared back at her in both horror, outrage, and a fraction of fear. It was obvious at once that he had no idea of who she was, but he would not let this stranger get away with such an infraction.  
  
"Let go of me."  
  
It took Hermione a moment to process what he'd said, so taken was she by the sound of his voice. It was like a younger and higher version of the voice she knew and loved so well, but it was far less cold and not half as somber as her Professor's. It was decidedly much more priggish than piercing.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
Blushing, she hastily let go of his robes and backed away from him a few steps. Though she tried to keep her head bowed, she could not stop herself from sneaking glances at him every few seconds. This boy was fascinating to her.  
  
Severus did not take his glaring eyes off of her as he smoothed out his robes, not wishing to let her out of his sight. It was quite clear to Hermione that he didn't trust her at all. But then, why should he?  
  
"Who are you, and how do you know my name?" he interrogated her suspiciously. Hermione bit her lip; she'd just shouted it out without thinking. One of his elegant black brows rose at her silence, and Hermione had to suppress a smile; he was so like himself. How silly and how true that statement was.  
  
"I can't tell you that, and I... I just do," was all she could say, her voice sounding childish and stupid even to her.  
  
Severus had crossed his arms tightly and was looking down his nose at her dubiously; it was more than obvious that he was not satisfied with her explanation at all. She sighed and focused her eyes on her shoes, trying to collect herself. Being in the presence---right IN FRONT OF---Third Year Severus Snape was proving to be too overwhelming even for the infamously levelheaded Hermione Granger.  
  
"Listen, all I can tell you is that I can't tell you anything," she gushed suddenly. She looked up at him to gauge his reaction to her ambiguous words, but Severus' expression remained guarded. However, his eyes had darkened considerably, and she could tell that he had grown even more suspicious of her. She bowed her head again.  
  
"But I want you to know... that I came a very long way just to see you," she whispered, her face flushing red as Ron's hair.  
  
Severus seemed quite taken aback by her last statement; he backed away from her in surprise, but his expression had changed from distrustful to fascinated. He opened his mouth as if to say something to her, but snapped it shut a second later, for the sounds of students' voices had begun to emanate from the hall adjacent to be in the library, you know how studious he is," mocked a now recognizable, drawling tone.  
  
"If not there, then in the potions lab. If we catch him there, he'll have no choice but to make the potion for us," responded an equally familiar high, rather shrill voice.  
  
Without a moment's pause, Snape grabbed Hermione by her wrist and practically dragged her along with him while he ran down the corridor. (She noted that his long hair brushed pleasantly against his shoulder blades as he ran, and that he executed the motion with both grace and ease; an action which she would never have attributed to her Professor Snape).  
  
"Where are we---" Hermione started to ask, but Severus shushed her warningly.  
  
"Don't make a sound," he whispered. "We're going someplace where they can't find me."  
  
'So it was him who they were looking for... I wonder what it is they want him to do?'  
  
Though Hermione detested athletics of any kind, she was in a state of utter bliss as Severus forced her to run with him down another hallway and then up a flight of stairs. It took her a moment to realize it, for she was quite distracted by the boy in front of her, but when she found herself and Severus before the door to the empty room on the fifth floor by which she had come to find him, Hermione knew just where he meant to take them.  
  
'How ironic,' she thought with more than a touch of amusement.  
  
Severus opened the door and quickly entered the room, pulling her along with him, as his fingers were still clenching her wrist. Once he had closed the door, however, he dropped her hand as if she were diseased, and stood as far away from her as he could get, despite how close their quarters were.  
  
"Close your eyes," he said, and did so himself.  
  
Hermione knew what was going to happen to them, as she had been through this room many times before, but she said nothing. She couldn't have if she'd wanted to; immediately after he'd spoken, the two were apparated to the matching blank room on the second-to-highest floor of Hogwarts.  
  
Severus allowed himself a moment to reorient his senses, and then stalked over to the door and opened it. He did not wait for Hermione to precede him, but obviously expected her to follow. Hermione did so, again smiling to herself as she compared the behavior of young Snape to that of his elder self.  
  
They walked several feet apart down the corridor to the door to the reading room that Hermione knew so well, had been to so often with Professor Snape. Now she was going to enter it with Severus.  
  
Once inside the room, Severus went to the left side of the impressive marble mantel and leaned his elbow awkwardly against it. He did not face his guest.  
  
Hermione silently walked to stand on the other side of the hearth and bowed her head, waiting for him to speak first. She was afraid to say anything, lest she say something she oughtn't, therefore infringing on the boundaries of time.  
  
She could feel him looking at her, sizing her up, for a long time before he finally spoke.  
  
"I think you ought to tell me who you are and how you know my name," he commanded gently. Hermione did not look up at him, but shook her head vehemently, her eyes growing wide and frightened.  
  
"I can't do that." Her words were soft, but final.  
  
This flashing in his eyes made it clear that Severus was frustrated by this answer, but, strangely, he did not press her further.  
  
He nodded his head imperceptibly and turned his eyes to his right hand, the fingers of which were fiddling with a stray piece of black thread that had loosened itself from one of his robe sleeves. He remained silent for a moment or two, mulling over what he would say next to this mysterious stranger.  
  
Hermione took this time to study Severus himself; her heart was hammering a mile a minute within her breast as she did so. Though not an example of physical perfection as Lucius was, this boy was stunningly beautiful in his own, dark way. His white face and hands fairly glowed in contrast with his stark black robes, hair and eyes.  
  
He harbored many secrets within that brilliant brain of his, things that Hermione knew no one else in the world could possibly know, and they rendered his face a mask of guarded hardness and intense vulnerability. She'd never seen such a paradox of feeling exist in one person, and the affect this had on his entire being was purely captivating.  
  
This made him more beautiful to Hermione than anyone she had ever before seen, and she felt awed in his presence, as if he were a celestial being that had been manifested on the Earth into a human body. She found that she craved to hear him speak to her again.  
  
"So..." she began lamely, searching for a topic of discussion. She suddenly remembered how eager he had been to get away from Lucius and his friends, and how curious she was as to the reason why.  
  
"Who were those three students that you ran from?" She instantly regretted having asked him that question, for it had caused him to abruptly turn around to face her, eyes blazing with a quiet fury. She was about to apologize, but he turned away from her again and shrugged his shoulders, becoming visibly calm once again, if still defensive.  
  
""Those people" are my friends," he informed her, bitterness suffusing the last word.  
  
Hermione was consumed by pity for him; those were almost the same words he'd said to her as an adult about his social life as a student. Confronted by his depressing anecdote personified was rather overwhelming for her, so she simply resumed her line of questioning.  
  
"What, er, did they want you to make for them? I heard them whispering in the hall about trying to get some boy to make a potion for them, and I presumed when you ran away from them that it was you who they were looking for," she elaborated when he shot her a curious glare.  
  
"Oh," he said, waving his hand dismissively, a sneer of disgust contorting his features. "They wanted me to concoct a contraceptive potion for them."  
  
"Ew!" Hermione blurted, her own expression twisting into one of revulsion. And here she had thought that someone like Lucius would want something deadly and dangerous with which to wreak havoc upon his unsuspecting Muggle peers! He just wanted what every heterosexual male student of their age (usually older) did, so to speak.  
  
"My thoughts exactly," Snape returned dryly. Then, all of a sudden, his eyes lit up with a mysterious, grim realization and he spun around to stalk menacingly towards the stunned girl.  
  
"Wait just a minute," he seethed. "What right have you to ask me anything about myself when you won't even tell me your name?"  
  
Hermione could only stare blankly at her shoes, feeling too trapped and guilty to be able to say anything.  
  
"Exactly." Severus' voice had softened considerably, indicating that her silence had served to somehow mollify his temper. Warily, she raised her head to look at him, and saw that he had resumed his position at the far end of the fireplace mantel.  
  
A tingling sensation rushed through her body, reminiscent of the near delirium she had experienced when Professor Snape had kissed her. She caressed the young Severus' face with her eyes, imagining that she could feel every ridge of bone and plane of skin.  
  
"Very well, then," Severus was saying. Hermione's eyes were now glued to the movement of his lips. "So you won't tell me what is most important for me to know. Why don't you tell me something else, then? Such as, why you've sought me out in the first place?"  
  
Hermione's eyes shot up to his; she was quite taken aback by his question. Head bowed, he slowly shifted his own eyes upwards to meet hers. She blinked and gulped down the thickness that had settled in her throat.  
  
"Well, I really shouldn't tell you that either---"  
  
"Oh, come now," Severus interrupted her in an almost petulant tone. "You have to give me something."  
  
Hermione's brows rose high on her forehead, her mouth opening and closing while her brain ran through the many possibilities of what she could say to him. Severus rolled his eyes at her and smirked dryly. He pushed away from the mantel once again and began to slowly pace the room, his expression deeply pensive.  
  
"Well, here are the things I already know about you: you go to this school, a fact which is made evident by your...," Severus' lip curled upwards in a momentary sneer, "Gryffindor robes. Either that, or you've somehow stolen a set of them; something which is nearly impossible to do, what with the sophistication of the wards they've set about this school..." He had reached the wall on the other side of the room, and so pivoted on his heel to prowl to the opposite end before continuing in his delineations.  
  
"Though I've never seen you before, you can't be more than..." Here he looked her up and down briefly, "twelve, so that makes you a Second Year at the most---"  
  
"ExCUSE me, but I am almost fourteen years old! I don't see how you could have thought..."  
  
But she did see; she knew just how slight and small she was, and how those aspects could easily deceive one into thinking she was younger than her actual age. Severus was grinning mirthfully at her, revealing fairly white teeth with fanged incisors.  
  
Seeing this grim boy smile made Hermione more than happy to return the gesture, never mind that it was at her own expense.  
  
"So you're a Third Year, then," he said in a conversational tone, the smile melting from his features and being replaced by his serene and slightly superior countenance once more. Hermione nodded tentatively. She was still afraid of giving up too much. "Why in all this time haven't I ever seen---"  
  
Time! Hermione's eyes widened and she clutched at the Time Turner beneath her robes; it must have looked to Severus like she was having a heart attack, as he'd trailed off in the middle of speaking to stare at her concernedly. She hastily pushed up her left robe sleeve and read her watch. Only ten minutes until she had to leave.  
  
"Are you quite alright?" Severus asked, confused. She looked back at him and smiled thinly.  
  
"Yes, of course, it's just... I need to leave here very soon."  
  
Severus raised his eyebrows sardonically. "Right. You must understand how cryptic that sounds."  
  
Hermione giggled bashfully, now well aware. "I wish I could explain more, I really do."  
  
"Mmm," Severus grunted as if he cared not whether she did nor didn't. Hermione knew that he did, though, for if he didn't he wouldn't have dragged her up here with him and practically begged her for an explanation.  
  
She smiled sadly; she only had five minutes left with Severus, and she felt in that moment as if she never wanted to leave him again, like she wanted to stay and grow up with him. But she knew that so many things would go wrong in the lives of so many people, including her own, if she gave in to that wish.  
  
And somehow, she knew in her soul that she would prefer her Professor Snape over young Severus if she were forced to make a choice between them. Mature beyond her years and always hungering desperately for a special brand of attention that only an adult figure of authority could bestow upon her, Hermione knew intrinsically that she would never be able to form a bond any closer than friendship with another person of her age.  
  
But, like all people do, she would always miss what she could never have. She looked into Severus' face again, committing to memory the nearly untroubled and completely unlined visage that the youth possessed. She wondered what it would be like to kiss her Professor when he was no older than she; 'legal', as it were. A few more seconds of entertaining this notion and she yearned to act it out with him.  
  
"Severus?" she asked softly, not seeming to notice the dreamlike quality her voice had taken on. The boy glared at her sidelong, his expression wary; he had definitely noticed it.  
  
"Yes..." he replied cautiously.  
  
"May I kiss you before I go?"  
  
Severus' eyes grew larger than she had ever seen them before, adult or child. He choked down a surprised gasp.  
  
"Why in the world would you want to do a thing like that for?" he shouted at her, completely unnerved.  
  
Hermione herself was surprised at her own gall, but the fact that she was about to go back into a completely different time gave her the confidence and courage to say what she pleased. Or, what had suddenly popped into her head at that exact moment. Plus, the fact that she had transcended time itself made her feel rather like she were in a fairytale, and that she should act and speak accordingly. Years later, she would recall this clumsy request with the utmost embarrassment.  
  
"I don't know," she said quietly, shrugging, but no real shame suffused her voice or posture. "I just want to."  
  
"Well," Severus huffed, "we don't always get what we want."  
  
Hermione's shoulders slumped and her face fell in defeat. Perhaps it was because he innately trusted this girl, or, more likely, because she was about to 'leave' in a few minutes time and he somehow knew that she wasn't ever going to come back, but Severus decided to at least give her a reason for his adamant refusal to kiss her.  
  
He crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head upwards. He could feel her looking at him expectantly, as if she knew that he was about to tell her something deeply personal. Why he was about to do this, Severus could not for the life of him comprehend.  
  
"You see, I can never kiss a girl," he began haughtily, "because I don't favor them." When Hermione said nothing, he turned to look at her and saw that it was because she was utterly confused. He rolled his eyes and heaved a dramatic sigh.  
  
"I favor men."  
  
Hermione couldn't help herself, her eyes bugged out and her mouth fell completely open; one would have been able to look directly down her throat from several feet away.  
  
'What the...? Then why does he like us when he grows up? I am SO confused right now.'  
  
"Do you have a problem with that?" he asked her in a defensive tone, noting her exaggerated reaction to his admission.  
  
(It should be said that, in the Wizarding World, one's sexuality isn't nearly as much of an issue (for lack of a better word) as it is in the Muggle one. Just because two men or two women can't procreate with one another does not mean that they cannot or should not embark upon a serious relationship together. The parents of homosexual witches or wizards are only unhappy with their child's choice of lifestyle---if they are unhappy with it at all---because no heir to the family will be born to the same-sex couple.)  
  
"N-no, Severus, I don't have a problem with it at all, it's just---"  
  
"Just what?" he cut in, eyes flashing. Hermione gulped, and thought fast.  
  
"Just that it's a surprise. After all, you're the type of wizard that a witch would go mad over. Take me for example." she smiled at him encouragingly. He sniffed arrogantly, but seemed satisfied with her clarification, and just a bit flattered as well. Hermione let out a silent breath in relief.  
  
Even as a mere boy, this person was terrifying! And as always, she loved being frightened by him. What a strange person she had turned out to be, a person who was thrilled instead of cowered in the face (the very personage) of animosity.  
  
"Well..." she murmured sadly. As much as she did not want to at that moment, she really did have to go. Severus tilted his head to the side and allowed his shoulders to sag; he was very nearly pouting as he all but glared into her eyes.  
  
"You have to leave," he said for her, his voice dripping with resentment.  
  
Hermione's head drooped remorsefully, but she could not and would not succumb to Severus' frigid charms. 'Frigid charms'. Her pale lips quirked into a tiny smile as she inwardly chuckled at both herself and him. Severus apparently did not notice it.  
  
"I guess this is good-bye then, 'mystery maiden'", he taunted. Hermione lifted her face so that he could see her smile. Such a warm expression being directed at him startled him slightly, and she laughed.  
  
"Oh, I'll see you again, Severus. That is a promise," she avowed jubilantly. Severus jumped again at hearing his name, having forgotten that she knew who he was. He barely noticed her walking over to the door, unlocking it with her wand and then opening it.  
  
He never got a chance to ask her just how she knew his name; the girl was upon him in seconds, forcefully pushing him out of the room and then shutting the door in his face and locking it with a loud click before he could even begin to yell at her.  
  
And yell he did when he realized what she'd done, threatening to hurl such creative curses at the girl locked within the room when he got his hands on her that Hermione could not help but laugh aloud, thinking that he had a lot to learn about terrorizing people before he would be worthy of becoming Professor Snape. Unaware of the cause of it, her laughter only fueled the boy's furor. He began to pound on the door, to struggle with the locked knob and then to finally warn her that he was going to open it with magic.  
  
This threat did it. Hermione's laughter died on her lips upon hearing it, and she yanked the Time Turner out of her robes, her eyes catching on the glinting watch face on her left wrist as she did so. It was 8:34p.m. It was time.  
  
The number of times she was to turn the tiny hourglass counterclockwise loomed in her mind as if it had been literally written there, and she quickly accomplished the task. The dizzying spinning of matter around her commenced immediately afterwards, and she squeezed her eyes shut so tightly that painful stars exploded behind them. The last thing she would ever hear Severus say in this time floated into her ears as if she were underwater:  
  
"Alohomora!"  
  
But when the door burst open and the boy flung himself inside the room, he found it to be empty. The 'mystery maiden' had disappeared from his life just as swiftly and strangely as she had come into it. He cursed and threw his wand to the ground.  
  
Hermione was crumpled up on the reading room floor, a human heap of flesh and robes that gasped for breath and clutched at her madly throbbing head. While trying vainly to reorient herself to her own time as her mind struggled to hold on to everything that she had experienced during her hour in 1974, the door to the room was abruptly and unmercifully thrown open.  
  
Standing so still that the fact that he was a living, breathing being was barely evident, was Professor Severus Snape. His anger infused with his magic, and dark waves of it flowed from his body like smoke from a simmering cauldron.  
  
Hermione had never seen anyone this furious in her life. She stared up at him dumbly, blinking heavily and slowly as she continued to adjust to her surroundings. At this moment, there was no semblance of caring or compassion for her in Snape's eyes; they were soulless, black cavities of condemnation and rage, and Hermione could do nothing but submissively accept what she saw within them. His voice, when he spoke, sounded like that which his eyes projected.  
  
"What have you done to me?" 


	25. Freer

Beneath the Surface

Chapter the Twenty-Fourthe: Freer

"What have you done to me?"

Hermione remained mute, her eyes begging the forgiveness for which she didn't know how to ask. How could he possibly have known?

Snape's own eyes never left hers for a second as he shut and locked the door behind him. Back in the hallway, he had suddenly been overcome by very vivid memories of his youthful self and Hermione Granger that he knew had not actually occurred in that time frame. These new 'memories' were now scrabbling to place themselves among his actual ones, and were having difficulty fitting properly. This unusual process made his brain feel, for lack of a better word, fried.

Luckily for him, however, this was the least that could happen when someone decided to mess around with your past self. Though he was profoundly relieved at that, he was immensely infuriated at the very thought of what could have happened to him had Hermione decided to stay longer or do something drastic (physically or mentally) to his person.

He stepped closer to her, his movements so slow and deliberate that he seemed to be floating across the floor. He planted his feet at a distance of about a foot from the prostrate Hermione; she had to crane her head backwards to keep eye contact with him, for he was now looming over her.

Though he still appeared deeply disappointed with her, the rancor that had previously imbued his body had dulled down to a cold, steely simmer.

"Explain yourself," he commanded, his voice toneless and devoid of inflection. The quiet before the storm.

"I..." Hermione's voice barely escaped from her throat, so she cleared it of the frog before going on. "I used the Time Turner to go back into your---"

"I know what you did!" Snape roared, causing Hermione to scrabble backwards a few paces in alarm; her back was now against the wall. "What I want to know is _why _you did it."

Hermione only looked up at him bleakly, knowing that no answer she could give him would make him forgive her, knowing that she did not deserve his forgiveness anyway. His face was wreathed in shadows, all sharp angles and glittering eyes. She gulped down a shuddering breath.

She found that she was genuinely afraid of him, and the realization intensified the feeling because she had never been frightened of another human being before in her life. She wrapped her scrawny arms around her drawn up knees and shrank back against the wall, wide eyes sparkling in the dimly lit room.

Severus' mind was torn in two at the haunting sight Hermione presented to him: a part of him reveled in her obvious fear of him—he could all but smell it in the air surrounding them!—and was just desperate to sample it, to violently take it into his own body and thus conquer hers; the second part of him, the redeemed, penitent and righteous one, was so ashamed of the devious desires that had first struck him that he wanted to run from the room and never look back at Hermione Granger again.

What to do, what to do? Severus sighed raggedly, rolling his eyes heavenward as if he were praying for guidance. Bathed in the muted, golden glow of the reading room, his appearance was reminiscent of a troubled Saint in an ancient Byzantine rendering. Though the affects Hermione's romp in his past had wreaked upon his mind were ebbing away, his thought processes were still a bit frazzled.

A wave of guilt flowed through Hermione, leaving her feeling sick and empty; her foolish actions had brought him to this, and she deserved whatever she got. She closed her eyes and awaited his judgment.

'I should hex her, I should physically _throttle _her! Such would be no less than what this errant child deserves,' he thought vehemently. 'But... for some reason, I just... can't. For some reason, I understand why she would do that. For some reason, I have gone inexplicably soft.' He squeezed his eyes shut in a moment of agony, hoping that this was yet another affect of Hermione's time-traveling. He sighed and turned to face the prostrate girl.

"I know that you know that what you have done was selfish and incredibly wrong, and there are no words I could say to you that would be worse than what you are undoubtedly saying to yourself right now," Severus stated in a calm and measured voice. Each word caused Hermione's face to contort into an expression of further and further disbelief. He went on, his head turned so that he could not see her.

"So I will allow you time to compose yourself before telling me just why you did what you did."

Hermione was completely taken aback by his words; she'd done a very bad thing, she deserved, _needed_, to be disciplined for it!

True, she had never been what one would call a 'problem child', but like any other child, she had misbehaved from time to time. Her parents would respond to her naughtiness with vague reprimands, which was quite contrary to the screaming and crying scenes other children her age engaged in with their parents. Sometimes they would even be struck! Her mother and father rarely even embraced her, let alone raise a hand to her in anger.

Over the years, she had developed a deep-seated curiosity about this mysterious thing called 'punishment', and, though she would deny it to her last breath, she wanted to experience it herself.

In summation, Hermione Granger had done a VERY bad thing here. Why was Professor Snape going so easy on her?

"Sir," she began softly, rising with caution from her spot on the floor. "Aren't you going to punish me for what I did?"

'_Did she have to use that particular phrase?' _Severus cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Erm, no, Miss Granger, I am not."

"... Well, why not?!"

Severus met her eyes, shock evident in his own. The girl seemed quite upset that he was letting her off the hook. What was wrong with this child?!

"Hermione, I believe that you have some rather deep-seated psychological problems which I don't think I am prepared or trained to address," he declared dryly.

Hermione emitted a wounded gasp, then pressed her lips together so to suppress any further verbal indignation. He'd just called her by her first name. Despite the biting insult, that suggested that he had at least marginally forgiven her, and wished to remain on friendly terms. She sighed in relief, so loudly that Snape had to suppress an amused smirk at her expense.

At last relaxing his posture, he turned and strode purposefully to his accustomed chair and gracefully collapsed into it. He sighed again and primly arranged his robes about himself, shifting minutely for several moments until he was comfortable. Once settled, he faced Hermione and met her eyes, knowing instantly that she had been watching this entire, ritualistic process by the mirthful gleam he saw within them. He returned her slight smile with a mocking sneer of his own.

They engaged in a rather intense staring contest for approximately half a minute before Severus gave up (remembering, once again, that he was the adult out of the two of them) and irritably indicated the seat beside him with an outstretched hand. Hermione eyed the hand warily, as if it might reach to strike her if she came any closer. Snape rolled his eyes.

"I've had enough of your foolish games, girl! If you don't sit down next to me this instant, I really _will_ punish you!"

He blinked once and Hermione was in her seat when he reopened his eyes. She was having a bit of trouble keeping her composure, but she was within arm's reach and that had been his goal.

Now that he thought on it, perhaps the girl did deserve a bit of punishment for her transgressions. She had deliberately violated the constraints of time and space just to go back into his past and meddle around within it! Such a calculated offense merited chastisement. Perhaps he would just make her squirm a bit.

He rested his back against his chair and regarded her with the most sly, serpentine smile he could manage. The girl's eyes became perfect circles and she gulped audibly; Snape's smiled curled out wider.

"There's a good girl. I am of the opinion that people should sit facing one another when they are about to have a fair and equal dialogue," he drawled, his voice dripping with saccharine sweetness.

Hermione did not remove her eyes from his for a single moment, so distrustful of this undoubtedly false display was she. Unbeknownst to the girl, her suspicion of him was making Snape's little game all the more enjoyable. He chuckled softly to himself.

"Now," he began, drawing forward in his seat and interlacing his fingers together, his voice retaining that dark, syrupy quality. "About your little foray into my past: don't you have any questions for me?"

Hermione continued to stare at him silently, the twisting of her small hands into her robes and the erratic jiggling of her left leg betraying her discomfiture with this unorthodox situation. Snape tilted his head and clucked his tongue indulgently, as if he were dealing with an unwilling young child.

"No questions whatsoever? Well. I would think that someone as... hungry for knowledge as yourself would have at least one---"

"Professor, just what are you driving at?" Hermione interrupted him, her voice quiet, guarded.

"So now it's 'Professor' again? My dear Hermione," he moved forward intimately and gently took one of her hands, "I think we're well past formalities. Don't you?"

The last words were whispered, for he had continued to draw closer to the girl until their faces were barely an inch apart. He began to stroke her palm with his thumb, and inclined his head so that it was at just the right angle for him to kiss her. His finely tuned ears could hear her heart fluttering loudly in her chest, and he noted that her eyelids were becoming heavier as his amorous advances took effect over her senses.

But before he could abruptly pull away in order to completely confound the child, as had been his intention, Hermione's eyes suddenly snapped open, ice cold steel replacing the dreamy haze of seconds ago. She leapt up from her chair and glared down at him fiercely while she endeavored to catch her breath.

"How dare you play with my emotions like that, Severus!" she shouted at him, her voice thick with injury and her eyes welling with tears. "This is a far worse punishment than any I could have thought up! Making a girl who adores you putty in your hands just because you want some answers. It's despicable! No matter what I've done, I don't deserve to be treated like that, no one does! When you kissed me the first time, I thought it was because you truly wanted to, but now that I know you would do it just to manipulate me, maybe that time didn't mean anything to you either---"

Severus couldn't take it any more (not just her childish ramblings, but the accusations she was leveling at him); he grasped her arms with both hands and pulled the startled girl down into his lap. He didn't know if it was just to prove her wrong and clear his conscience or because he didn't want her to think his feelings for her were false, but he wasted no time in taking her face into both of his hands and pressing a strong kiss to her lips. He could tell by the way her response turned from hesitant to eager that her confidence in his feelings towards her had been restored.

Though she had been shell-shocked at first, Hermione soon began to return the ardent kiss as best she could, and squeezed her eyes shut. She was afraid that if she opened them again, he would stop, and she didn't know what would happen with them if he did. She lifted a tenuous hand and intertwined its fingers into his jet black tresses as she had dreamed so many times of doing. Her grip became stronger the longer the kiss went on, and the more she forgot herself.

After a moment or so had passed, Snape gently pulled his lips from hers, smoothing back her hair as he did so. He placed a hand over the one that was still entangled in his own hair and carefully removed it.

"That hurts," he explained softly, an amused smile playing about his lips.

Hermione blushed crimson and bowed her head. Was that why he had stopped? She licked her lips, cleaning them of their saliva as well as savoring the remnants of their kiss. Severus tipped her chin up with his fingers to face him, raising an eyebrow at her bashfulness.

"Should I not have done that?" he asked, a modicum of apprehension coloring both his tone and his expression. Hermione grinned, touched by his concern.

"No, I'm glad you did," she replied frankly, albeit shyly. She licked her lips again.

"Um... may we do it again?"

Severus' eyebrows shot up in surprise at her boldness, and he took this clear-headed moment to get a good look at her. He and his Third Year female student were locked up in a deserted room, and she was sitting on his lap, staring into his eyes dreamily after he had willingly kissed her. This just would not do, not at all.

He unceremoniously pushed her off of his lap, not apologizing when she fell to the floor with a wince and a thud. She glared up at him angrily, understanding that he had been overcome by yet another bout of his many attacks of conscience, but wishing he had treated her in a kinder and less painful fashion.

"I'll take that as a 'no'," Hermione grumbled, rubbing her right hip which was now very sore.

"Everything in moderation, Hermione," Snape advised dryly.

He had crossed one long leg over another so that she could not get back onto his lap, should she have the mind to, and folded his arms defensively across his chest. He was regarding her as if she were a physical danger to him. She rolled her eyes and smirked up at him, readjusting her skirt so that it covered her legs. He looked away.

She studied him from out of the corners of her eyes; he looked so elegant sitting that way, like he was from another age, a more refined and subtle time. Most would say he appeared imposing, but she would say... almost effeminate.

Effeminate! Her eyes widened in remembrance. That was what she had wanted to ask him about most of all! Something his younger self had said to her when she had been back in his time. After what they had just done, Snape couldn't be too furious with her if she asked him about it.

She hastily got up and set her hands firmly on her hips, glaring down at him with a mixture of superiority and amusement in her expression. Surprised, Snape looked back at her blankly, as if to ask 'yes'?

"Severus, I do have a question for you after all," she declared. "It's about something you said to me when I was back in your time."

Snape blinked sharply, the color in his face draining. He had been a very troubled young lad when he was her age. And he hadn't yet learned to hold his tongue.

"Yes?" he muttered, peering up at her almost fearfully. She smiled to reassure him that it wasn't as bad as he so obviously thought it was, but he remained skeptical.

"Well, it was right after I asked you to kiss me..." she trailed off, blushing at the memory as well as at his shocked expression. "Don't worry, you refused."

He appeared intensely relieved at this.

"Of course I did." Then he pursed his lips in mock disdain. "And I had thought only the boys had a one-track mind," he chided her sardonically. She attempted to scowl evilly at him, but the small smile twisting up the corners of her mouth ruined the effect.

"Yes, well," she continued, "As I was saying, you then gave me a reason for not wanting to kiss me."

His interest was piqued at this statement. "Did I?"

"Yes, you did. And it was... really quite something." She stopped smiling, rather anxious at what he would have to say to this. What if he verified the statement? That would make their 'relationship' completely null and void, at least on his side.

"Well, get on with it! What did I say?" he prodded her impatiently, rising to stand so that he could loom over her once more. He could barely contain his curiosity at this point.

"You told me you were gay!" she blurted, unable to hold back under the pressure he was putting on her to speak. "Well... you didn't use that exact word, but that's what you meant."

Snape stepped back from her, his face ashen yet emotionless as he ran through every one of the new memories Hermione had bestowed upon him, searching for this indiscretion on his part. When at last it surfaced, he closed his eyes, sighing bitterly.

He said nothing for a long time, leaving Hermione anxiously awaiting an answer that wasn't forthcoming.

"Um... you can tell me," she offered nervously. "It's alright."

Snape finally reopened his eyes, and when he did, they were focused directly into hers. Though taken aback at their intensity, she kept his gaze.

"Hermione," he began somberly. Her eyebrows rose of their own free will; she was desperate for him to continue. "When I was your age, I was a _very _confused young boy. I... didn't know what I wanted. Circumstances... led me to experiment sexually."

"What who? With WHAT?" Hermione blurted. Snape's eyebrow quirked in warning, and she stilled.

"That, my child, is none of your business," he said firmly.

"Ok..." Hermione conceded after she'd had a few seconds to calm down. She was perplexed, and had no experience with people who were gay or bisexual, but she prided herself on being an open-minded person. "So this means you're what now?"

"Well, I'm a wizard. Shouldn't that fact be rather obvious?" he asked her dryly. She rolled her eyes in impatience.

"You know what I mean, Severus." And she did, but she didn't believe that now was the time to worry about being politically correct.

"Of course I do," he replied teasingly. Hermione was obviously not finding this funny, however, so he heaved a weary sigh and decided to get right to the point.

"You see, Hermione, you had caught me at a rather awkward time when you decided to abuse the uses of your Time Turner." He shot a meaningful glance at her, and she ducked her head sheepishly. "To explain everything briefly---which is more than you deserve, I must say---I had come to the conclusion that all women were weak-minded creatures who dedicated their lives to pleasing men and ignored the desires of themselves and those of others who... needed them, and I wanted nothing to do with them. Yet I still had developed the same... physical desires that were only natural for a boy of that age to possess. So, to fulfill them, I turned away from the other girls at school and looked to the boys. The end," he said after a full moment of enduring the irritating feeling of the expectant eyes of Hermione boring into his profile.

"I see," she said quietly. She chewed off half of her right thumbnail before working up the nerve to ask him the one thing she wanted to know most of all. "Um... so... do you still dislike women, and are you just having this... thing with me because your inner child has decided that it wants to give girls a try?"

Snape choked so badly on his shock that he had to conjure up a glass of water and gulp down its contents to regain his breath.

"Miss Granger," he huffed, "that is not only the most disturbing thing that's ever come from your lips---which is _really_ saying something---but it is completely untrue! I have long since gotten over my confusion towards women and have... been with quite a few more of them than I have with men over the years! NOT that it is ANY of your business!" He wondered for the umpteenth time just what was it about this girl that made him spill out his secrets without even thinking about it?

"I'm sorry, I was just wondering," she said in a small voice, bowing her head.

He realized that he must have been shouting at her, for she appeared to have shrunken into herself. He knew he could have that affect on people. At once recomposed, he went to kneel before her, clasping her small hands in his as he looked up into her down-turned face, searching for her eyes within that unwieldy mass of her hair.

"I'm sorry for yelling at you, Hermione, I didn't mean to." He was encouraged by her tiny nod and slight smile. "You had a right to ask me about that, despite the circumstances in which you found it out. Forgive me?"

"Of course I will!" And with a broad smile, she bent down and planted a loud kiss on his cheek. Severus blanched and immediately stood up, delicately letting go of her hands. He saw out of the corner of his eyes that her satisfied grin had not diminished in intensity.

Off in the distance, the bell that signaled the curfew for the First through Third Year students was ringing. Severus and Hermione's eyes met and they nodded at each other, acknowledging the fact that she had no choice but to go. Severus walked her to the door, hand hovering behind her back in a courteous gesture, and opened it for her departure.

"Severus?" she asked of a sudden, urgency in her eyes.

"Yes?"

"Do you, er, still like men at all today?"

Severus' jaw worked as he fought to bite his tongue; would she never learn not to pry into others' private affairs? Most likely not, he answered himself.

"From time to time, yes. But I must say that I largely prefer the ladies. Now, get out of here before you're late for curfew!" He commanded in a light tone before shutting the door in her face.

'At least he didn't slam it this time,' Hermione grumbled inwardly.

As she hastily made her way back to the Gryffindor Common Room, thoughts ran through her head of her Professor in his younger form with other boys of the same age, and, to her surprise but not to her disgust, the images were not entirely unwelcome.

'I'm just becoming stranger and stranger as time goes by. I wonder what I'll be like when I grow up,' she mused in a characteristically detached manner.

"And just where have you been?" Was the less than warm welcome she received from Ginny Weasley when she at last entered her quarters, close to ten minutes too late for curfew. Hermione bit back a smile and dismissed her friend's suspicious question with a wave of her hand.

"Just down in the library, figuring out a few things. I suppose the time got away from me."

"Mm-hmm," Ginny mumbled, intelligent enough to know that her friend was not only lying to her, but that she would not find out the truth from her by ordinary means.

She studied Hermione's every move in silence as she went about her nightly routine of getting ready for bed. There was something different about her movements, Ginny noticed. They weren't so stiff, so careful... for some reason, Hermione seemed freer.


	26. How Far

Beneath the Surface

Chapter the Twenty-Fourthe: How Far

"You said that you would hold my hand in private, Professor," Hermione reminded Snape playfully after he had attempted to wrench his hand from her grasp when she had reached out for it. "Those were your very words, if I'm not mistaken."

"I say a lot of things, Miss Granger." Snape put an extra emphasis on her title, for though they were currently the only two people walking down the darkened Potions wing to his classroom for one of their appointed after-school sessions, some wandering students or Argus Filch and his ever-present companion Mrs. Norris could pop out at any second. All of Snape's senses were on guard, just waiting for a hint of nearby humanity.

Hermione, on the other hand, didn't think they needed to be so careful, naïve child that she was. She enjoyed the affects that speaking too loudly or trying to walk very closely to Snape when they walked through the halls had on him. Sometimes she would even skip in circles around him or begin to sing nonsense songs off-key (things which, by the way, were quite out of character for her; she was truly a different person when around him), just to irk him. Snape was just so entertaining when he was annoyed with her!

"And besides," he was presently muttering, "we are _not _in private at the moment."

Hermione rolled her eyes and smirked up at her professor playfully. "I don't see anyone else here."

"Don't be stupid, there could be people just around that corner there and you wouldn't even know it until it was too late." He punctuated this statement by darting his eyes back and forth suspiciously. He was the picture of paranoia, however justified he was in his actions.

Hermione couldn't help it: a loud spurt of laughter bubbled forth from her throat, a sound that was both mocking and immensely amused. It caused Snape to jump, and he subsequently clapped his hand soundly over her mouth.

"Hush!" he commanded the wide-eyed child in an urgent whisper. "That's just the sort of behavior that could get us caught, foolish girl."

Hermione was evidently trying to say something back to him, for her mouth was working uselessly against his hand and stifled sounds were emanating from her throat. Snape narrowed his eyes down at her.

"If I take my hand off your mouth, do you promise to be quiet?"

A second later, he yanked his hand away from her in disgust when her reply was to shove her tongue between her lips and swipe it across his palm. She giggled softly, her own hand over her mouth to muffle the sound, as he wiped her saliva off on his robes. A murderous glare from him promptly sobered her up.

"Ugh," he sneered. "How revolting. I'd take off House Points if I wished the Headmaster to know the reason for the deduction."

"Oh, so you'll accept my tongue in your mouth but not on your hand?" she retorted coyly, sticking out the offending organ teasingly. Snape appeared shaken by her response at first, but his features quickly slid into a bitter sneer, left eyebrow raised high.

"Do not speak of such things to me, they are beneath the both of us," he replied somberly. Then he turned and continued to walk towards their destination in utter silence.

Hermione, a bit baffled by his mood's sudden change from indulgent to indignant, followed after him, also without speaking. Sometimes she wondered why he didn't just break it off with her entirely, for she knew how ashamed of himself he was. Not that she wanted him to.

On the contrary, she dearly treasured the strange relationship they shared. They had only kissed twice, touched each other affectionately (the momentary clasping of hands, the stroking of one's hair, the caressing of another's face) only a bit more often. But that was enough to keep her happy and to satiate the physical needs she knowingly awoke in him.

For now.

Hermione despised it when Snape assigned someone a detention during one of their sessions. She knew that his schedule after classes was more often full, and that he had to put them somewhere, and sometimes they were placed with him by another teacher, but she still felt as if the other person's presence was a direct offense to her.

Surely he could have found some other staff member upon which to unload the child if he really wanted to. Such thoughts caused her brow to crease and her lips to tighten as she silently went about grading Snape's Fourth Year essays (he would not allow her to assist him in any of his work while others were present in the classroom).

Her small, white fingers gripped the red-tipped quill so tightly that it was on the verge of snapping. She noticed this, but cared not. She would always write so furiously—as if her passion for a subject was taken out upon the feather itself—that she was in constant need of new quills. But tonight, the reason for the death-grip was her irritation towards Snape, and her anger at the unknowing student that occupied the room with the two of them.

It happened to be a Second Year Hufflepuff (the child's name eluded Hermione), who was in Snape's detention because he had been passing notes in his class. The boy was unremarkable in the way of appearance, his expression quite dull.

'_Why bother giving the stupid detention?_' Hermione wondered. '_They did not learn their lesson and would inevitably repeat their crimes. Surely Severus should know this_!'

But to look at him, as she did now, immersed in paperwork, it seemed he was just as ignorant of her presence as he was of the other student's. That he cared equally for the two of them. Her face grew hot with anger as she saw him heave a silent sigh.

'_Bored, is he? I'll put a stop to that straight away. I don't care who's in this room, I want to know that he cares!'_

'_She must be positively seething by now. I can feel it emanating from her body to my brain,' _Severus thought, his face a studied mask, as he pretended to pore over papers.

Hermione seemed to grow more frustrated with him each time that a student was thrust into his care during one of their sessions. He had already explained to her that he could not control such a predicament. This was not his fault! Why couldn't she be reasonable about this?

'_Severus, calm down. You're running your mind ragged over the tantrums of a child…. But she's **my** child…'_

He sighed. The wave of shame that swept through and sickened his stomach at the thought was not as strong as the last one had been, and that one was not as strong as its predecessor. He supposed he was finally getting used to that girl being _his _girl.

But all fond thoughts of Hermione were forgotten as he heard her chair move backwards with an ear-splitting screech, and he watched her with squinted, warning eyes as she stomped petulantly towards his desk.

"Professor Snape," she addressed him in a shrill, obviously mocking tone. Thank gods the child sharing the classroom with them was so thick-headed. His head remained bent over his desk, completely oblivious.

"Yes, Miss Granger, what is it?" he managed to grind out through gritted teeth. She smiled—_the little prat actually **smiled**—at his discomfort. _

"I was just wondering," She began, making a girlish show of toying with a lock of unruly hair, "if you were planning to continue our session, as per usual, after Mr. Rumbold has finished his detention."

Upon hearing his name, the dimwitted boy looked up at them. Even he could tell that the way his peer was leaning against Snape's desk, her stance relaxed and flirtatious, was not quite right somehow. Snape noted Rumbold's attention and fixed dangerously glittering eyes upon Hermione's. To his happiness, the courage caused by her childish fury was beginning to visibly falter under his stare.

"Well, I'm not quite sure, Miss Granger. The extra tutoring you had requested does not seem quite necessary at this point, now does it?"

He rose from his desk so that he could look down upon her, his height and larger size intimidating the girl, who also stood up straight so that she might look up to meet his eyes. All the playfulness had left her body. She was once again nothing more than a schoolgirl, cowering under her professor's gaze.

"As you are so obviously capable of maintaining top grades in my class, perhaps I should no longer waste my time and yours by telling you things you already know, and just let you go."

He had her now. Hermione's lip had begun to tremble, her eyes to grow large and watery. He knew that the way he had phrased that sentence would be particularly jarring to her, she clung to him so. Triumph reigning his thoughts, he decided to finish her off.

"Yes, I think perhaps we should make this the last session. What say you to that?"

But she said nothing. There was no ferocious rejoinder to justify his cruel words. Just a small hand clapped over a gaping mouth, and the sound of sharp footsteps tearing from the room and slamming the door.

Snape just stood there for what felt like a long while afterwards, his body frozen, his eyes staring at the spot where Hermione had just been standing.

"Mi—mister Snape?" Rumbold uttered, his voice sounding as if there were a frog eternally caught in his throat. The Second Year still could not remember to call him by his proper title of 'professor'. "It's nearly a quarter past the hour. M… May I go now?"

Snape's eyes darted to the clock, suddenly made aware of the time and of his position as the boy's supervisor. Transfixed by his exchange with Hermione, the boy had overstayed his welcome, as it were. Snape turned scathing black eyes upon him.

"Yes, get out," he commanded him. "You're finished here."

The boy, quite confused and a bit frightened now, took no extra time in making his exit. Once he had gone, Severus sank back down into his seat, placed his head in his hands and let out the ragged sigh he had been holding in since Hermione had run from his classroom.

'_Bollocks. Now what have I done?'_


	27. Fighting for Control

Beneath the Surface

Chapter the Twenty-Fifthe: Fighting for Control

It would be weeks before Severus and Hermione engaged in any private contact with one another. They met in her classes with him, and sometimes passed each other in the hallways. Neither dared to look at the other, but the other's presence was always noted.

Their private sessions had ended without a single word passing between them.

Upon further reflection the very night after the incident in his classroom where she had run from him, he had decided that her anger was no fault of his; she was a willful, stubborn girl whose intense emotions had once again gotten the better of her. She should have realized that he was just testing her. …Which made him realize that it was indeed he who had begun their argument in the first place.

'_That stubborn child…. Absolutely infuriating…. Impossible to control.' _He sighed, running bony fingers through his hair. It fell back in his face. He sighed once more. _'But it is no fault of mine that she takes me so seriously. Nothing is any fault of mine. Not anymore.'_

He scoffed at his own childish thoughts. But he did not—would not—take them back. Even his own mind fought his will. His conscience, more like. The last time he let it win him over, someone had lost their life. He shook his head.

'_No thinking of that, now. Get yourself a drink and waste your mind away…'_

"Did the two of you have a fight?" Ginny asked Hermione quietly.

They were studying in the library, several weeks after 'the incident' had occurred. She had noticed that the glowing smiles Hermione had adapted this year had disappeared from her face as of late, her eyes grown tired and troubled once more. It was risky to ask her friend about the Professor—as far as Hermione knew, Ginny thought they were merely friends. But Ginny was no fool, unlike her brothers.

Hermione must have needed to talk to someone, however, as she did not brush off Ginny's line of questioning.

"I suppose you could call it that," Hermione whispered. They were in a library; she must not disturb the other visitors. Never mind the fact that she and Ginny always picked the desks farthest away from the front of the room as possible, and there were no other people in sight.

"It was during one of my extra credit session," she began tentatively. Her need to share with another human being outweighed her need for secrecy. "He was combining the session with another student's detention, which I don't think is fair to me. That's my time with him, right? I mean, how am I supposed to properly learn anything with another student there serving a detention?" Hermione knew that she must pick her words carefully. She didn't want to reveal too much to her young friend.

"He… he can be so cruel sometimes."

"Cruel?" Ginny asked; her brows furrowed in concern. Hermione was whispering so softly that she had to lean in a bit to be able to hear her properly.

"Well… I suppose that's an exaggeration," Hermione amended. "You know how he can be so unnecessarily insulting to people."

"Mmm." Ginny nodded, listening intently.

"What basically happened during that session was that I came up to him and told him just what I've told you about those sessions being my time and no one else's, and he just… well, blew up at me. So I ran out of the room. I didn't know what else to do. And we haven't spoken since."

Hermione sighed. Ginny patted her back as a mother would to console her distressed child.

"I think that he should apologize to me first. After all, what he said was completely uncalled for. Don't you think that's fair?" Hermione asked her friend, almost desperately. She needed validation.

"Of course it is, Herm." Ginny offered her a small smile. Hermione returned it bashfully. She'd never had a conversation about boys with anyone before, and despite the fact that Professor Snape was no boy, and that she and Ginny had completely avoided the real issue at hand, she felt as if she had just engaged in her first session of what she knew to be called 'girl-talk'.

"Well," she laughed softly. "I suppose we'd best finish our work now. Thanks, Ginny."

"Sure. Anytime." She smiled and the two friends returned to their books.

'_Oh, dear,' _Ginny thought._ 'Sounds like what Mum would call a 'lover's quarrel' to me.'_

The unnerving sound of one of his father's old brandy glasses (which he insisted on filling and re-filling to the brim with whiskey) shattering against the flagstones of his chambers rang in Severus' ears long after he had hurled it.

His right eyebrow began to twitch rapidly; it was a nervous tic that only revealed itself when he was a combination of intoxicated and angry. His head began to throb dully; the warnings of a hangover for the following morning.

"Damned job. Damned child. Damned… responsibility!" he spat into the emptiness of his small sitting room. The volume of his own voice was too much for his leaden head to handle. He grasped at it with both hands, forcing shut his eyes with a pained wince.

He stumbled over to a worn paisley armchair and allowed his body to fall into it tiredly. The delicate bones of his back cracked as he stretched it out against the straight back of the chair. He sighed heavily, taking comfort in the echo the sound of his breath created. It seemed to be apologizing for the ruckus of a few moments past; he accepted it and began to relax.

The third of whiskey that had been in the glass before Severus had flung it was now seeping into a throw rug like blood. Only magic could remove the stains of either substance, he knew.

With a few incantations muttered under his breath, the liquid was back in the newly repaired glass, which was now resting atop the mantel of his fireplace.

A surge of fear gripped his heart as he realized that he did not know where his wand was. That wand was his identity; he _must not _lose it.

(A wand, to a witch or wizard, is like a wallet is to a muggle. It is just about irreplaceable, or should not be replaced unless it was completely necessary, and it must be kept on or near one's person at all times.)

Severus scanned the room wildly with his eyes. It was not there. Dizziness swirled through his body as he forced himself up and rushed to the bedroom. He got no further than the doorway; he sagged against its frame in sweet relief as the object of his frenzied search was spotted immediately.

"Thank the gods," he whispered hoarsely. He should have known that it would be resting on his pillow, the spot he always seemed to carelessly leave it when he went in search of something alcoholic to drink.

He floated over to the bed and collapsed upon it, curling up like a cat around the pillow that was serving as a cushion for his wand. He looked at it lovingly, knowing that it would never speak back to him, never lie to him, and never yell… it would never hurt him. Nothing comforted him more than this creation.

He laid his hands upon the pillow, encircling the wand, and squeezed his eyes shut. He knew sleep would come to him tonight. It always came after drinking.

Drinking. How stupid he had been to allow himself to fall prey to one of the family's many secret bad habits. Had he cared more for his well-being, he would have sought out help, or at least have made an attempt to stop.

But Severus had done none of these things. He'd allowed himself to fall years ago into the addiction, sporadic though it was. What he could remember of the person he became while intoxicated sickened him. The things he'd done while what they call "under the influence" made his stomach twist into knots.

These very thoughts made him want to wretch, but he knew he hadn't the strength to drag himself into the bathroom. He stubbornly bore down on his upset stomach and concentrated on concentrating on nothing (the hardest thing for him to do whilst sober).

As he was beginning to drift off to sleep (something that was also nearly impossible for him to accomplish whilst sober), a thin, filmy thought realized itself upon his thin, dry lips: "For the child of two dentists, the girl has such enormous teeth…"

A muffled giggle escaped him, and then he was gone into blissful oblivion.


End file.
